PS 

2651 

.P3 

U6 

1855 


3   1822  01321   2550 


UWfY       *V  OF 

SAWDtEOO 


3  1822  01321   2550 


. 


THK 


UNFORTUNATE  MOUNTAIN  GIRL 


COLLECTION  OF  MISCELLANIES, 


PROSE    AND    VERSE, 


BY  L.  J.  PRATT 


KUTLAND: 

080.    A.    TUTTLg   &   CO.,    BOOK    AND  JOB   PRINTKBS. 
1855- 


PREFACE. 


In  presenting  this  little  work  to  the  public,  the  writer  would  beg 
leave  to  say  that  she  does  not  make  special  claims  to  erudition,  or  a 
ctyle  of  writing,  which  shall  attract  for  its  novelty.  Having  been 
nearly  deprived  of  the  use  of  her  eyes  since  the  age  of  eleven  years, 
»he  has  made  such  use  of  her  mental  faculties  as  her  kind  Heavenly 
Parent  has  permitted;  and,  through  the  aid  of  her  friends,  presents 
in  this  little  volume  some  of  those  meditations  which  have  occupied 
her  mind  while  the  external  world  in  all  its  beauty  and  splendor  has 
in  a  great  measure  been  shut  out  from  her  vision.  She  can  only  hope 
that  her  readers  will  throw  the  mantle  of  charity  over  the  many 
imperfections,  which,  she  is  aware,  exist  in  these  humble  efforts  to 
give  form  and  expression  to  a  few  straggling  thoughts.  She  would 
respectfully  ask  that  the  Golden  Rule  might  be  the  rule  by  which  her 
cause  might  be  tried,  and  then  she  may  confidently  expect  that  the 
"  UCFORTUNATE  MOUNTAIN  GIRL  "  will  meet  with  a  kind  reception  from 
an  indulgent  public. 

Wt-»r  BIRESHIRI.  VT. 


THE 


UNFORTUNATE  MOUNTAIN  GIRL, 


THE   GIPSY   GIRL, 


LizzA,the  heroine  of  our  story,  was  the  daugh 
ter  of  a  Gipsy.  Her  mother  died  when  she  was 
about  six  years  of  age,"  and  from  that  time  she 
had  mingled  in  the  society  of  none  save  that  of 
her  father,  who  then  left  his  tribe  and  betook 
himself  to  a  secluded  spot  near  the  banks  of  the 
river  D.,  where  he  hoped  to  spend  the  remainder 
of  his  days  in  the  society  of  his  beautiful  and 
gentle-hearted  Lizza,  and  resolved  to  seclude 
her  from  the  gaze  of  the  gossiping  world  for  fear 
that  her  beauty  would  deprive  him  of  his  only 
treasure.  Here  they  spent  several  years  in 
happiness,  unmolested  by  the  intrusion  of  any. 
She  was  ever  by  her  father's  side,  save  when  he 
went  to  market,  and  during  his  absence  she  usu- 


O  THE    UNFORTUNATE 

ally  amused  herself  by  singing  the  wild  Gipsy 
songs  which  her  father  had  learned  her,  which 
were,  the  most  of  them,  favorite  pieces  of  her 
mother's. 

One  beautiful  evening  in  September,  Lizza  and 
her  father  were  seated  under  their  favorite  tree, 
singing  their  wild  song,  which  they  usually  sang 
at  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  sun  was  shed 
ding  its  last  rays  over  the  earth.  They  had 
scarcely  finished  their  song,  when  a  stranger 
stepped  from  beneath  a  thicket,  where  he  had 
been  listening  to  the  bird-like  voice  of  Lizza. 
He  approached  the  spot  where  sat  the  old  man 
and  his  beautiful  daughter,  resting  her  head 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  very  politely  accosted 
them.  The  old  man  was  much  disturbed  at  his 
approach,  and  by  no  means  gave  him  a  hearty 
welcome.  The  stranger  looked  at  the  fair  girl 
with  astonishment.  He  had  often  seen  the  old 
man  in  the  market  but  had  never  dreamed  of 
his  having  so  beautiful  a  daughter. 

After  a  short  interview,  the  stranger  perceiv 
ing  that  he  was  an  unwelcome  guest  of  the  old 
man,  took  his  leave.  "I  am  thankful  he  has 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  7 

gone,"  said  the  old  man,  placing  his  hand  upon 
Lizza's  shoulder. 

"Why  father?  why  did  the  presence  of  that 
gentleman  give  you  so  much  pain?" 

"  I  have  my  reasons ;  but  it  would  not  be  prop 
er  for  you  to  know.  Come  child,"  said  he, 
starting  from  his  seat,  "  let  us  go  to  our  tent." 

Lizza  asked  many  questions  concerning  the 
stranger,  but  could  gain  no  satisfactory  answer. 
In  a  few  days  after,  the  old  man  was  again 
obliged  to  visit  the  market.  As  soon  as  he  en 
tered  the  market,  the  stranger  saw  him,  and 
knowing  that  he  usually  stopped  there  some 
time,  resolved  that  he  would  seek  an  interview 
with  the  fair  Gipsy  during  her  father's  absence, 
and  immediately  set  out  for  her  tent. 

Lizza,  as  soon  as  her  father  had  gone,  seated 
herself  beneath  the  shade  of  her  favorite  tree 
and  commenced  singing  her  wild  songs.  Look 
ing  up,  she  saw  some  one  at  a  distance,  whom 
she  recognized  as  the  stranger  who  had  accosted 
them  but  a  few  evenings  before.  He  approach 
ed,  and  taking  her  warmly  by  the  hand,  seated 
himself  by  her  side.  Lizza  seemed  much  alarm- 


8  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

ed  on  finding  herself  alone  with  the  stranger, 
and  begged  him  to  be  gone,  telling  him  that  her 
father  would  be  very  angry  should  he  find  him 
there  on  his  return. 

"Do  not  be  frightened,  my  dear  girl,"  said 
he,  "  I  came  here  to  converse  awhile  with  you 
during  your  father's  absence,  and  will  leave  ere 
he  returns.  But  tell  me,  I  entreat  you,  why  a 
being  so  fair  as  yourself  should  spend  her  days 
here  in  this  secluded  spot." 

"  Secluded  spot"  said  she,  with  an  air  of  con 
tempt.  "  We  are  Gipsies — we  have  our  mode 
of  living  and  you  have  yours.  I  am  happy  in 
the  society  of  my  father,  and  you,  perhaps,  in 
the  society  of  a  wife  or  a  mother." 

"Wife,"  murmured  he,  "I  have  no  wife,  but 
had  I  one  as  beautiful  as  yourself,  true  enough, 
I  should  be  happy  in  her  society." 

"  But,"  said  Lizza,  "  say  no  more.  You  must 
leave,  for  my  father  will  soon  return." 

He  reluctantly  rose,  and,  taking  her  by  the 
hand,  said:  -"We  part  now,  but  not  forever." 

These  words  rung  m  the  ears  of  Lizza.  "But," 
said  she,  "it  will  never  do  for  me  to  even  think 


MOUNTAIN     GIRL.  9 

of  him,  for  he  is  a  stranger.  Besides,  my  father 
will  never  consent  for  me  to  receive  calls  from 
any  one." 

Time  passed  on,  and  Lizza  thought  more  and 
more  of  the  stranger,  and,  at  times,  almost  wish 
ed  that  she  could  see  him  again.  At  length,  her 
father  was  obliged  to  go  to  market.  Edward 
(as  that  was  the  stranger's  name)  saw  the  old 
man  there  as  soon  as  he  entered,  for  he  had 
watched  each  day  for  his  approach.  Immedi 
ately  he  set  out  to  renew  his  visit  with  the  fair 
Gipsy.  As  he  reached  the  spot,  he  found  the 
fair  girl  under  her  favorite  tree,  but  she  seemed 
thoughtful  and  melancholy.  He  took  her  by 
the  hand,  saying,  "My  dear  Lizza,  I  came  here 
this  afternoon  to  declare  to  you  the  love  which 
I  have  had  for  you  since  first  we  met,  and  to 
offer  you  my  heart  and  hand,  and  seek  yours  in 
return." 

"But  stop,"  interrupted  Lizza.  "You  are 
too  hasty.  You  would  never  marry  a  Gipsy." 

"Marry  a  Gipsy!  to  be  sure  I  would,  and 
shall  consider  myself  one  of  the  happiest  beings 
in  the  world  if  I  can  but  obtain  you." 


10  THE    UNFORTUNATE 

"  Oh  no,  that  can  never  be,  for  I  have  ever 
been  taught  to  love  none  but  my  father,  and  he 
would  never  consent  to  our  union.  Why,  Ed 
ward,  would  you  not  feel  mortified  to  introduce 
me  to  your  friends  as  your  bride  ?" 

"  Mortified,  dear  Lizza,  no,  indeed.  I  should 
feel  proud  to  call  so  fair  a  being  as  yourself  my 
own.  It  is  true,  you  know  nothing  of  my  cir 
cumstances;  but  one  thing  is  certain,  I  have 
enough  to  place  you  beyond  the  reach  of  want, 
unless  misfortune's  hand  is  laid  heavily  upon  me. 
If  that  should  be  our  lot,  we  will  share  it  to 
gether." 

"  Oh  Edward,  how  could  I  be  so  ungrateful 
to  my  father,  who  has  always  been  so  kind  to 
me,  as  to  leave  him  without  a  friend  on  earth  to 
comfort  him  in  his  declining  years.  Oh  Edward, 
I  could  never  act  so  rashly,"  said  she,  while  the 
tears  fell  from  her  dark  eyes. 

Edward  drew  her  closely  to  his  side,  saying: 
"  Dear  Lizza,  you  need  not  leave  your  father 
alone.  He  shall  always  have  a  home  with  us 
Only  say  that  you  will  be  mine.  Say,  dear  Lizza, 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  11 

could  you  not  be  happy  with  me ;  or  should  you 
sigh  for  your  wild  home?" 

Lizza,  leaning  her  head  upon  his  shoulder, 
said:  "I  could  be  happy  in  your  society,  but 
my  father  will  forbid  our  union." 

"  Never  fear,-  dear  Lizza,  I  will  obtain  his 
consent  if  you  will  allow  me  to  remain  here  until 
he  returns." 

"  You  can  do  as  you  like,  but  I  fear  he  will 
be  very  angry,  and  immediately  remove  me  from 
this  part  of  the  world ;  and  if  we  are  married, 
it  must  be  done  privately." 

"  Well,  Lizza,  then  say  the  next  time  your 
father  goes  to  market  that  I  may  come  here  with 
a  carriage,  and  that  you  will  accompany  me  to 
the  village  where  we  will  have  the  marriage 
ceremony  performed." 

"But,"  said  she,  "what  will  my  poor  father 
think  on  returning  and  finding  me  absent?" 

"  We  will  leave  a  letter  here  which  will  ex 
plain  all." 

Lizza  consented,  and  Edward  took  his  leave, 
feeling  that  he  had  the  promise  of  the  fairest  be 
ing  in  the  world.  Lizza,  on  her  father's  return, 


12  THE    UNFORTUNATE 

did  not  meet  him  with  the  same  cheerful  smile 
that  she  was  wont  to  do ;  and  the  sadness  of  her 
countenance  attracted  her  father's  notice. 

"  Lizza,"  said  her  father,  "  why  are  you  so 
sad?  Are  you  not  well?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Lizza,  throwing  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  and  warmly  imprinting  a  kiss 
on  his  cheek.  She  strove  to  resume  her  usual 
cheerfulness,  but  still  her  heart  was  sad.  As 
the  time  at  length  arrived  for  her  father  to  again 
visit  the  market,  Lizza  could  not  refrain  from 
tears.  The  old  man  saw  the  tears  as  they  fell 
from  her  eyes,  and  drawing  her  to  his  side  said : 
"  My  child,  what  is  the  cause  of  your  weeping?" 

"  Oh,  I  was  thinking  how  lonely  I  should  be 
were  I  to  be  deprived  of  your  company." 

"  Do  not  allow  yourself  to  think  upon  that 
subject,"  said  her  father,  "for  we  will  never  be 
separated  until  by  the  ruthless  hand  of  death." 
On  saying  this,  he  imprinted  a  kiss  on  her  cheek, 
and  said,  "be  cheerful,  my  child,"  and  left  her. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  she  gave  vent  to  a 
flood  of  tears.  She  called  to  mind  the  many 
happy  hours  that  she  had  spent  with  her  father, 


MOUNTAIN   GIRL.  13 

and  the  thought  of  leaving  her  childhood  home 
forever,  to  go  she  knew  not  where,  was  more 
than  her  poor  heart  could  bear. 

She  soon  heard  the  carriage  wheels  as  they 
approached.  She  sat  motionless  as  Edward  en 
tered  the  tent. 

"Dear  Lizza,  why  are  you  weeping?  You 
do  not  regret  the  promise  you  made,  do  you? 
You  shall  never  want  for  the  comforts  of  life, 
and  you  shall  ever  find  in  me  a  kind  and  affec 
tionate  husband ;  and  as  for  your  father,  he  shall 
ever  be  a  welcome  guest  with  us.  And  here," 
said  he,  "  is  a  letter  for  your  father.  Come,  we 
must  be  in  haste,  for  we  have  no  time  to  spare." 

Lizza,  then,  with  as  much  composure  as  pos 
sible,  took  leave  of  her  home,  where  sorrow  had 
ever  been  a  stranger  until  now,  and  was  soon 
rolling  rapidly  away.  Lizza's  father  returned 
sooner  than  usual,  and  entering  the  tent,  found 
his  child  gone  and  a  letter  lying  upon  the  table. 
On  opening  it  he  read  as  follows : 

"  Dear  Sir  :  I  know  that  you  will  feel  much 
surprised  at  the  absence  of  your  daughter,  but  be 
ealm,  and  I  will  tell  you  all.  Sir,  the  first  time 


14  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

I  saw  your  daughter,  seated  by  your  side,  I  re 
solved  that  she  should  be  mine  if  I  could  obtain 
her  consent.  Accordingly,  I  availed  myself  of 
the  opportunity  to  talk  with  her  during  your  ab 
sence,  and  to-day,  ere  the  sun  shall  set,  Lizza 
will  be  my  lawful  and  wedded  bride.  But  in 
three  days  she  shall  return  to  you.  She  was 
very  unwilling  to  leave  you,  as  she  said  she  was 
all  that  you  had  to  care  for  in  this  world.  But 
let  me  say  that  you  need  never  be  separated, 
for  you  shall  ever  have  a  home  with  us.  And 
believe  me  to  be  your  dutiful  and  affectionate 
son.  EDWARD  BLAKELY." 

As  he  closed  the  letter,  he  sank  back  in  his 
chair,  saying,  "  I  shall  never  see  another  happy 
moment,  for  my  only  child  is  torn  from  me,  and 
for  me  to  leave  my  old  home  and  go  to  that  of 
another,  I  can  never  bear  the  thought.  No,  I 
will  live  like  a  hermit,  and  when  the  Lord  sees 
fit  to  call  me  from  earth,  I  will  die  alone,  without 
one  friend  to  bathe  my  throbbing  brow,  or  shed 
the  farewell  tear.  For  twelve  years  it  has  been 
my  constant  care  to  supply  the  wants  of  my  only 
treasure.  I  have  denied  myself  of  every  com- 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  15 

fort  for  her  sake.  And  is  this  the  reward?" 
The  old  man  spent  the  days  in  walking  around 
the  solitary  paths  that  he  used  to  traverse  with 
so  much  delight  when  his  darling  child  was  at 
his  side.  And  at  night  he  would  lie  down  upon" 
his  couch,  but  he  could  not  rest,  for  sleep  had 
departed  from  his  eyes. 

At  length,  the  time  arrived  for  the  return  of 
liis  child.  As  Lizza  and  Edward  entered  the 
tent,  they  found  their  father  weeping. 

"Oh,  my  dear  father,"  said  Lizza,  "I  have 
come  to  ask  your  pardon,  and,  if  possible,  to 
persuade  you  to  go  home  with  me." 

••  My  dear  child,  I  grant  you  my  pardon,  but 
I  can  never  leave  my  home.  Since  here  is  the 
man  of  your  choice,  go  and  be  happy.  But  for 
me,  I  shall  never  again  be  happy." 

"  Say  not  so,"  interrupted  Edwai'd,  "  for  we 
will  ever  be  all  that  a  parent  can  desire." 

"Now,"  said  Lizza,  "I  hope  I  shall  be  en 
abled  to  repay  your  kindness  to  me.  Come,  say 
that  you  will  go  home  with  us.  Come,  say  you 
will  go  at  least  and  see  our  home." 

After  mucli  persuasion,  the  old  man  consent- 


16  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

ed.  They  were  soon  seated  in  the  carriage,  and 
rolled  rapidly  along,  until  they  reached  their 
mansion,  where  they  alighted  and  were  shown 
into  a  parlor  nicely  furnished,  where  they  spent 
the  evening  very  pleasantly,  and  the  old  man 
quite  forgot  his  sorrow.  Here  he  spent  many 
happy  years  with  his  affectionate  and  happy 
children.  And  he  never  regretted  leaving  liis 
old  home.  Lizza  ever  found  Edward  a  kind  and 
affectionate  husband,  and  stood  high  in  society. 
She  was  ever  ready  to  lend  a  helping  hand  to 
the  needy,  and  was  beloved  by  all  who  knew 
her. 


MOUNTAIN     GIRL.  17 


THE  PEACEFUL  COTTAGE, 


IN  a  small  village,  in  the  eastern  part  of  Maine, 
lived,  some  years  since,  an  old  woman,  who  was 
known  by  the  name  of  Industrious  Mary.  Her 
cottage  .was  built  with  logs  and  covered  with 
slabs,  but  from  the  air  of  neatness  which  every 
thing  about  it  exhibited,  could  not  fail  of  attract 
ing  the  notice  of  the  passing  stranger.  Soon  af 
ter  the  death  of  the  old  lady,  two  friends  hap 
pened  in  their  travels  to  meet  at  this  place,  and 
being  invited  by  the  beauty  of  the  scenery  and 
the  desire  of  discoursing  with  freedom  upon  past 
events,  to  a  walk  in  the  fields,  they  found  them 
selves  unexpectedly  at  the  humble  cottage,  which 
a  tall  hedge  hacl  at  first  hindered  them  from  see 
ing.  While  they  stood  admiring  its  neatness 
and  simplicity,  and  anxious  to  know  something 
of  its  occupant,  they  were  joined  by  a  villager, 
who  informed  them  that  it  was  then  uninhabited, 
and  at  their  request  proceeded  to  give  the  char- 


18  THE  UNFORTUNATE 

acter  of  its  late  owner,  the  substance  of  which 
was  as  follows : 

She  was  a  "native  of  this  village,  and  lived  all 
her  life  here  without  any  loose  desire  of  seeking 
her  fortune  or  fancy  expectation  of  meeting  with 
advancement  in  distant  places.  Being  always 
averse  to  society,  she  had  no  borrowed  vices  nor 
imitated  follies.  She  was  unacquainted  with  the 
false  pleasures  of  luxury,  and  what  she  knew 
nothing  of,  she  neither  desired  nor  envied.  Her 
wants  were  the  wants  of  nature ;  she  had  not 
habituated  herself  to  falsehood  by  flattering  the 
vanity  of  a  gaudy  mistress,  nor  borrowed  the 
art  of  shedding  tears  for  trifles,  or  bearing  inso 
lence  with  an  affected  submission;  but  having 
thus  escaped  the  general  source  of  conniption, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  excluded  herself  from  all 
hopes  of  any  assistance,  but  that  of  Providence, 
she  maintained  herself  by  an  honest  and  un 
wearied  industry,  free  from  distress  and  above 
dependence.  It  is  the  right  of  every  cottager 
to  graze  a  cow  on  the  adjoining  common.  This 
privilege  was  Mary's  estate.  She  had  many 
years  ago  purchased  a  cow  with  the  money  she 


MOUNTAIN     GIRL.  19 

had  saved  from  wages  of  her  daily  labor.  From 
her  she  was  supplied  with  milk  and  butter  and 
cheese,  part  of  which  she  lived  upon,  and  part 
she  carried  to  the  market.  In  a  little  garden 
close  to  the  house  she  had  a  row  of  apple  trees, 
under  which,  when  no  other  business  called  her 
away,  she  sat  sewing  with  a  contented  heart  and 
a  smiling  face.  Thus,  what  would  have  been 
wretchedness  and  poverty  in  the  estimation  of 
those  who  have  been  accustomed  to  fashionable 
life,  was  easy  affluence  in  the  natural  condition 
of  humanity.  The  neatness  and  regularity  of 
her  house  made  me  often  frequent  it ;  her  furni 
ture  and  utensils  of  the  cheapest  sort  were 
always  clean,  and  always  in  order,  and  every 
thing  about  her  seemed  to  be  under  the  direc 
tion  of  Providence  and  the  smiles  of  heaven. 
When  she  rose  in  the  morning  her  devotions 
were  her  first  employment,  her  earliest  and 
purest  thoughts  were  given  to  her  Creator  in  a 
form  of  humble  adoration.  She  then  read  a 
short  portion  of  the  holy  Scriptures  with  a  sin 
cere  and  earnest  attention,  not  with  a  view  of 
reconciling  them  to  vice,  or  of  interpreting  them 


20  THE  UNFORTUNATE 

in  her  own  favor ;  but  of  regulating  her  behavior 
by  their  unerring  rules,  nor  till  those  duties  were 
performed  did  she  suffer  her  mind  to  fix  upon 
the  business  of  the  day.  She  then  milked  her 
cow  and  made  her  cheese,  after  which  she  sat 
down  to  her  sewing,  and  except  the  little  time 
spent  at  her  meals,  worked  till  evening.  She 
never  went  far  from  home,  her  longest  journey 
was  to  the  next  market  where  she  sold  the  pro 
duce  of  her  little  dairy,  received  the  price  of 
her  sewing,  and  bought  what  her  own  cow  and 
garden  did  not  afford  her.  At  the  close  of  day, 
she  again  milked  her  cow,  and  concluded  the 
day  with  reading  and  devotions.  Thus  was  her 
life  one  uniform  scene  of  innocence  and  piety,  not 
saddened  by  misfortune,  nor  varied  by  caprice. 
She  enjoyed  almost  uninterrupted  health  till  the 
age  of  sixty,  and  then  dying  of  a  short  illness, 
was  found  possessed  of  seventy-five  pounds  which 
she  had  laid  up,  that  when  she  should  be  able  to 
work  no  longer,  she  might  not  subsist  upon  the 
labor  of  others.  Such  was  the  history  of  Mary, 
the  inhabitant  of  the  little  cottage,  a  place  which 
by  her  industry  and  virtue  she  rendered  far 


MOUNTAIN   GIRL.  21 

more  venerable  than  the  elegant  mansions  of 
sloth  and  luxury. 

When  we  sit  in  solitude  out  of  the  sight  of 
man  and  unbiased  by  their  customs,  when  we 
are  not  afraid  of  being  ridiculed  by  wit,  or  won 
dered  at  by  folly,  is  it  possible  to  doubt  a  mo 
ment  which  to  prefer  ?  Can  rational  beings  put 
weeks,  months  and  years,  trifled  away  in  unim- 
proving  discourse,  idle  visits  and  empty  amuse 
ments,  in  competition  with  Mary's  useful  labor? 
But  if  we  look  farther  into  the  conduct  of  those 
who  stand  in  higher  life,  and  add  their  vices  to 
their  follies,  if  with  the  time  lost  in  thoughtless 
diversion,  we  think  of  that  which  is  wasted  by 
unlawful  passions  in  ambitious  pursuits,  or  crimi 
nal  indulgences,  if  we  reflect  on  the  allurements 
to  wickedness  and  discouragement  from  virtue, 
we  shall  be  still  more  convinced  of  the  happiness 
of  obscurity.  The  devotions  of  Mary,  so  far  as 
we  may  presume  to  judge,  were  not  disregarded, 
since  they  were  offered  by  one,  who  lived  in  the 
practice  of  all  the  duties  that  fall  within  the 
compass  of  action.  They,  no  doubt,  drew  upon 
her  the  eves  of  those  angelic  beings  who  look 


12'2          THF  UNFORTUNATE 

\vith  contempt  on  pompous  greatness,  and  turn 
with  abhorrence  from  prosperous  wickedness, 
and  opened  to  her  those  regions  of  eternal  hap 
piness,  whither  many,  who  now  boast  their  no 
ble,  ample  fortunes  and  extensive  capacities, 
will  never  arrive.  When  we  are  led  to  repine 
at  our  station  and  to  envy  the  rich  and  the  great, 
let  us  look  at  their  vices,  their  cares  and  their 
troubles,  and  we  may  learn  to  hush  every  mur 
mur  by  contrasting  them  with  the  happy  life  and 
peaceful  death  of  the  contented,  the  industri 
ous,  the  pious  Mary. 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  23 

THE  ORPHAN'S  SOLILOQUY. 


I  love  to  sit  at  dewy  eve, 

Beside  some  rippling  rill, 

When  nought  but  silence  reigns  around, 

And  birds  their  quiet  nests  have  found. 

And  in  that  silent,  lone  retreat, 
Where  nought  save  God's  own  eye  can  see, 
I  love  to  raise  my  voice  in  prayer — 
My  Savior  ever  meets  me  there. 

I  love  to  think  on  early  days, 
When  blessed  with  a  mother's  prayers  and  praise 
When  this  heart  was  soothed  from  every  grief, 
By  a  mother's  sighs,  and  kind  relief. 

Those  golden  links  of  memory  ne'er 
By  time  can  be  erased, 
And  while  the  vital  spark  remains, 
I'll  think  and  whisper  oft  her  name. 

And  when  this  active  form  shall  lie 
Low  mouldering  in  the  ground, 
Oh !  may  my  happy  spirit  rise, 
To  greet  her  spirit  in  the  skies. 


24  THE   UNFORTUNATE 


I  THINK  OF  THEE, 


I  think  of  thee  when  morning  dawns, 
And  sheds  o'er  earth  her  gentle  rays, 
Then  my  thoughts  they  rest  on  thee ; 
When  thinkest  thou  of  me  ? 

I  think  of  thee  through  all  the  day, 
Whether  employed  in  work  "or  play, 
Still  my  thoughts  they  rest  on  thee ; 
When  thinkest  thou  of  me  ? 

I  think  of  thee  at  the  close  of  day, 
And  gladly  would  I  wish  thee  to  stay, 
Yet  we  must  separated  be, — 
When  thinkest  thou  of  me  ? 

And  in  my  dreams  thy  form  I  view, 
Though  I  am  far  away  from  you, 
Still  my  thoughts  they  rest  on  thee — 
When  thinkest  thou  of  me? 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  25 

THE  YOUNG  HEIRESS, 

CHAPTER   I. 

IT  was  the  close  of  a  glorious  summer.  Old 
Mr.  Morton's  small  white  house,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Illinois,  embosomed  in  a  rich  profusion  of 
living  green,  adorned  by  flowers  of  deep  luxury, 
and  canopied  by  a  sky  of  sunny  and  gorgeous 
hues,  had  been  that  summer  the  abode  of  as 
happy  a  party  as  ever  gathered  around  a  cot 
tage  door,  on  a  summer's  evening.  Charles 
Eltham  and  his  sister  had  spent  seveal  months 
there.  Arthur's  health,  which  had  been  seri 
ously  impaired  by  severe  suffering,  was  now 
so  far  restored  as  to  admit  of  active  exertion, 
for  which  the  state  of  his  finances  was  calling 
loudly.  And  it  was  agreed  that  the  party,  on 
the  morrow,  should  leave  the  undisturbed  repose 
of  the  country  for  New  York. 

The  circle  at  old  Mr.  Morton's  had  certainly 
been  a  happy  and  interesting  one.  The  old  gen 
tleman  had  been  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the 


26  THE    UNFORTUNATE 

revolution ;  and  the  young  people  were  as  fond 
of  listening  to  his  long  and  minute  stories  of 
those  ever-interesting  clays,  as  he  was  of  relating 
them;  and  among  the  listeners,  none  dwelt  with 
more  individual  attention  on  every  word,  than 
Marcia.  And  then  the  long,  long  romantic 
walks  on  the  ocean-like  prairie,  and  amid  the 
masses  of  the  never-ending  forest.  They  gath 
ered  wild  flowers,  they  listened  to  the  music  of 
morning's  earliest  birds,  they  traced  the  course 
of  the  wayward  brook,  they  drank  in  the  influ 
ence  of  nature  together. 

Marcia  had  been  happy,  most  happy,  even 
while  she  had  been  nursing  a  hopeless  passion. 
But  to  her  it  was  not  then  hopeless.  Sanguine 
in  all  her  expectations,  unused  to  the  blandish 
ments  of  polite  society,  unskilled  in  reading  hu 
man  hearts,  and  too  conversant  with  novels  and 
romances,  she  imagined  that  the  fondness  which 
Eltham  manifested  for  her  society  was  love. 

Deluded  girl ! He  did,  indeed,  regard  her 

as  a  beautiful  and  rather  interesting,  but  withal  A 
a  wayward  and  faulty  child.     And  the  attention 
with  which  he  treated  her  was  more  the  effect 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  27 

of  gratitude  and  friendship  for  the  brother,  than 
tribute  to  any  qualities  possessed  by  the  sister. 
And  had  he  even  looked  on  her  with  more  par 
tiality,  he  would  not  have  aspired  to  her  hand, 
for  she  had  now  become  an  heiress.  Eltham 
admired  the  firmness  with  which  she  bore  her 
good  fortune,  and  very  justly  considered  it  an 
indication  of  a  strong  mind.  But  sometimes  he 
thought  of  what  she  would  be,  when  experience 
should  have  corrected  her  faults,  education  re 
fined  her  manners,  and  time  matured  her  beauty. 
Had  he  known  the  sacrifice  she  had  been  will 
ing  to  make  for  his  sake,  his  feelings  toward  her 
might,  perhaps,  have  been  more  ardent.  He 
never  dreamed  of  the  existence  of  that  foolish 
passion  which  his  slightest  attention,  his  most 
immeaning  compliment,  was  nursing.  If  he  had, 
his  manner  towards  her  would  have  been  cold. 
Willingly  he  would  not  have  blighted  one  rose 
in  her  future  path ;  little  did  he  think  he  was 
strewing  it  with  thorns!  Little  did  he  think, 
f  while  he  twined  wild  flowers  amid  her  flowing 
tresses,  and  praised  the  fresh  bloom  of  her  cheek, 
how  many  bitter  tears  would  be  shed  over  the 


28  THE  UNFORTUNATE 

memory  of  these  careless  actions,  and  idle  words  I 
Little  did  he  think,  as  he  playfully  kissed  her 
forehead,  while  in  all  the  artlessness  and  inno 
cence  of  early  childhood  she  clung  around  his 
neck,  that  he  was  mingling  anguish  in  her  cup 
of  bliss! 

And  were  Arthur  Morton  and  Lucy  all  this 
time  unmindful  of  each  other's  charms?  0  no, 
inquisitive  reader.  The  germs  of  affection, 
nourished  at  first  in  secret,  had  expanded  into 
full  and  beautiful  bloom.  The  course  of  true 
love  had  for  once  flowed  smoothly.  And  now 
they  stood  together  before  the  marriage  altar. 
Lucy  had  never  looked  so  beautiful  before.  Her 
health,  which  intense  anxiety  had  impaired,  was 
now  perfectly  renovated.  A  faint,  retiring  red 
was  just  perceptible  on  her  cheek ;  her  soft  eyes 
were  redolent  of  bliss,  and  there  was  a  devoted 
look  of  fond  confidence  in  the  most  pensive  smile 
that  played  around  her  beautiful  lips.  Arthur's 
appearance  was  a  perfect  and  happy  contrast  to 
Lucy's.  He  was  tall,  his  form  manly  and  stri-^j 
king,  his  forehead  was  noble ;  and  its  clear,  pure 
white  was  shaded  by  hair  of  fhe  deepest  black. 


MOUNTAIN     GIRL.  29 

His  lips  curled  haughtily,  but  his  eyes  were  the 
most  striking  of  his  features ;  it  would  have  been 
difficult  for  the  careless  observer  to  have  told 
their  color,  but  their  expression  was  never  sur 
passed.  Whether  they  kindled  with  anger, 
flashed  with  delight,  or  melted  in  tenderness, 
they  were  alike  unrivalled.  There  was  a  rem 
nant  of  boyhood's  roses  on  his  cheek,  which,  in 
moments  of  animation,  would  gradually  change 
to  a  deep,  burning  red ;  yet  his  countenance  was 
manly  in  the  extreme,  and  had  nothing  of  the 
round,  smiling  plumpness  usually  associated  with 
red  cheeks.  But  though  the  personal  appear 
ance  of  that  youthful  pair  was  interesting,  it  was 
nobility  of  mind  that  shed  an  unearthly  glory 
around  them.  They  were,  indeed,  redeeming 
spirits  among  common  minds. 


30  THE   UNFORTUNATE 


CHAPTER  II. 


A  few  short  years, 
Ah!  who  can  tell. 


MARCIA  MORTON  was  left  to  weep  over  the 
presumption  of  unfounded  hopes — to  lament 
vanished  dreams.  But  she  was  a  proud  girl ; 
her  pride  was  lofty  as  her  affections  were  con 
stant,  and  though  in  the  depth  of  her  heart  was 
buried  anguish,  yet  her's  were  not  the  eyes  to 
quench  their  fires  in  unavailing  grief,  nor  her's 
the  cheek  to  grow  pale  of  unrequited  love. 

But  she  had  soon  other  sorrows  than  those  of 
disappointed  love,  over  which  to  grieve.  Her 
parents,  ere  the  return  of  spring,  were  both  laid 
in  the  same  grave.  Marcia,  for  a  long  time, 
was  involved  in  the  deepest  anguish.  She  had 
been  a  wayward,  and  sometimes  a  disobedient 
child,  but  she  had  loved  her  parents  with  a  depth 
and  fervency  of  feeling  of  which  common  minds 
never  dreamed ;  and  so  now  the  bitterness  o 
her  regret  was  proportional  to  the  intenseness 
of  her  love,  and  made  a  thousand  times  more 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  31 

bitter  by  every  recollection  of  her  former  un- 
kindness  towards  those  who  were  now  alike  in 
sensible  to  her  love,  and  her  repentance.  There 
was,  however,  one  consoling  reflection ;  for  dur 
ing  months  of  their  illness,  she  had  been  to  them 
a  ministering  angel.  Yet  her  reflections  were 
sufficiently  bitter  to  steal  the  color  for  a  while 
from  those  blooming  cheeks,  which  nothing  else 
could  have  paled. 

Marcia  spent  several  years  at  a  boarding 
school,  and  then  went  in  company  with  her 
brother  and  his  angel  wife,  to  spend  a  few  weeks 
at  the  Springs.  The  beautiful  orphan,  and  rich 
heiress,  did  not  escape  admiration  and  flattery. 
But  she  was  no  coquette :  she  treated  all  her 
admirers  and  suitors  with  the  same  cold,  calm, 
hardly  respectful,  indifference. 

Years  had  passed.  Charles  Eltham  and  Ar 
thur  Morton  had  met  as  old  friends  at  the 
Springs,  to  again  renew  the  early  friendship, 
which  had  ever  slowed  in  their  hearts  since  their 


•  first  acquaintance  in  Illinois. 


"•  Who  was  that  queen-like  beauty  by  your 
side  to-day,  Mrs.  Morton  ?"  said  Eltham,  as  they 


32 


THE   UNFORTUNATE 


sat  together  in  a  private  apartment,  that  evening. 

"And  is  it  possible  that  you  have  really  for 
gotten  your  little  favorite  amid  the  wild  haunts 
of  the  Illinois?" 

"  Was  that  really  Marcia  Morton  ?  Impossi 
ble!  She  cannot  be  so  splendidly  beautiful — 
and  such  expression  in  her  looks !" 

"  Certainly,  Mr.  Eltham  ;  six  years  have  pro 
duced  some  change." 

At  that  instant,  the  young  lady  in  question 
entered  the  apartment,  along  with  her  brother. 
There  was  a  slight  embarrassment  in  her  man 
ner,  as  she  returned  Eltham's  salutation ;  but  it 
passed  away,  and  Eltham  found  her  conversa 
tion  brilliant,  rich  and  refined.  She  was  no 
longer  the  fond,  wild  girl  of  fifteen,  who  had  in 
nocently  returned  his  caresses — no  longer  the 
wayward,  passionate  child,  but  a  dignified,  grace 
ful,  and  rather  reserved  young  woman.  A  slight 
paleness  shadowed  her  brilliant  features,  as  the 
conversation  turned  on  long-past  days,  old  fa- 
miliar  scenes.  One  long-buried,  but  not  forgot  ( 
ten  dream  of  her  girlhood,  rushed  obstinately  to 
her  mind,  and  she  was  silent.  She  moved  as  in 


MOUNTAIN   GIRL.  33 

her  brilliant  sphere  of  indifference,  her  heart 
untouched,  and  her  mind  weary  of  this  homage. 
There  was  one  who  remained  apparently  indif 
ferent  to  her  peerless  charms.  Charles  Eltham 
treated  her  in  company  with  a  cold,  distant  re 
spect.  In  the  private  circle,  at  Morton's,  he  con 
versed  familiarly  with  her,  and  seemed  happy  in 
her  society,  but  never  betrayed  any  other  re 
gard  for  her  than  mere  common  friendship. 

Another  year  had  gone  by,  and  wrought  its 
full  share  of  changes.  Mary  Huntington  was  a 
widow.  She  had  long  been  an  orphan,  and  her 
brothers  were  hi  foreign  climes.  She  resided 
in  the  family  of  her  sister  Matilda,  who  was 
married,  and  mistress  of  a  hotel  at  the  Springs. 
Morton  and  Eltham  were  again  at  the  Springs. 
Lucy  and  Marcia  were  at  home — the  home  of 
Marcia's  childhood,  by  the  side  of  the  Illinois. 
Marcia  had  positively  and  rather  obstinately  re 
fused  to  accompany  her  brother  to  the  Springs, 
and  Mrs.  Morton's  presence  was  required  at 
home  a  few  weeks,  at  the  end  of  which  period 
she  intended  joining  her  husband  at  the  Springs. 

Eltham  was  thrown  constantly  into  the  society 


34  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

of  Mrs.  Huntington.  Indeed,  he  was  always 
among  the  invited  guests  at  Patterson's;  for 
Matilda,  though  she  had  seldom  met  him  during 
their  long  separation,  still  regarded  him  as  a 
very  particular  friend.  He  and  Morton,  who 
was  a  cousin  of  hers,  were  invited  to  join,  as 
often  as  it  should  be  convenient,  in  their  private 
family  circle.  Eltham,  who  was  much  fonder 
of  joining  a  social  circle  of  friends,  than  of  mix 
ing  in  promiscuous  society,  soon  became  almost 
an  inmate  of  the  family.  His  presence  at  first 
inspired  bitter  thoughts  in  the  blighted  heart  of 
Mary ;  but  as  they  had  met  as  friends  during 
her  husband's  life,  so  they  met  now.  Eltham 
remembered  his  early  love  only  as  a  bright 
dream,  and  he  often  smiled  when  he  thought  of 
his  waking  disappointment.  All  resenntment 
had  long  been  dead,  and  he  regarded  Mrs. 
Huntington  as  an  early  and  dear  friend.  She 
was  changed,  entirely  changed ;  and  in  the  mel 
ancholy  widow,  with  her  white,  marble  cheeks, 
and  smileless  lips,  none  would  have  recognized  i 
the  blooming  and  happy  Mary  Enfield.  Yet 
she  was  still  an  interesting  woman,  and  still 


MOUNTAIN    GIIIL.  35 

beautiful.  In  mixed  company,  he  treated  her 
with  marked  attention  ;  she  was  his  partner  in 
the  dance ;  he  listened  with  rapture  when  she 
sung,  and  his  delicate  attentions  to  her  were  re 
marked  by  all  observers. 

Did  he  love  her  ?  No.  Neither  did  he  dream 
that  in  her  bosom — cold,  passionless  as  she 
seemed — there  could  possibly  linger  a  single 
smothered  spark  of  young  affection,  to  be  kind 
led  to  a  flame. 


CHAPTER   III. 

IT  was  summer, —  proud,  gorgeous  summer — 
Eltham's  health  had  suffered  severely  from  close 
application  to  business,  and  he  was  now  trying 
leisure  amid  the  beautiful  scenery  of  Illinois,  as 
a  restorative.  He  and  Mrs.  Morton  were  sit 
ting  together,  one  evening,  when  a  letter,  di 
rected  in  a  delicate  female  hand,  was  brought 
to  him.  He  gazed  at  the  superscription,  in 


36  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

evident  surprise,  broke  the  seal  hastily,  arid 
glanced  at  the  signature.  He  changed  color, 
and  immediately  left  the  room.  When  he  was 
alone,  he  read  as  follows : 

"MY  EARLY  FRIEND: — You  will  be  sur 
prised,  perhaps  displeased,  at  the  reception  of  a 
letter  from  me.  I  know  too  well  that  I  am 
transgressing  the  received  laws  of  female  deli 
cacy  in  addressing  you  on  the  subject  I  am  about 
to  introduce.  But  when  I  recollect  how  much 
happiness  I  once  recklessly  threw  away,  I  would, 
if  possible,  regain  some  small  portion  of  it.  You 
recollect  too  well  my  foolish  coquetry,  my  heart 
less  falsehood.  I  saw  you  were  suspicious  of  my 
constancy,  and — fool  that  I  was — I  resolved  to 
sport  with  your  feelings.  Yet,  shall  I  say  it  ? 
I  loved  you  well ....  and  the  thoughts  of  a  final 
separation,  at  that  time,  would  have  been  an 
guish.  I  did  not  know  your  spirit ;  you  treated 
me  with  a  degree  of  indifference,  which,  in  re 
turn,  roused  my  resentment.  I  avoided  you, 
and  spent  my  time  with  Huntington.  I  will  not 
now  speak  particularly  of  his  attention;  but  at 
last  he  taught  me  to  believe  I  loved  him  better 
than  I  had  ever  loved  you.  I  married  him.  I 
will  pass  slightly  over  the  events  of  long,  long 
years.  I  would  not,  for  all  sublunary  happiness, 
pluck  one  green  leaf  from  his  laurel  wreath  of 
fame.  I  would  not  shadow  the  unsullied  repu- 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  37 

tation  of  his  name.  But  had  suffering,  power 
to  atone  for  crime,  then  had  my  perfidy  long 
since  been  expiated.  I  had  learned  to  think  of 
my  love  for  you  as  something  for  ever  passed. 
But,  shall  I  own  it,  in  spite  of  what  the  Avorld 
would  call  indelicacy — in  spite  of  my  own  burn 
ing  pride.  .  .  .that  your  presence,  your  conver 
sation,  revived  all  my  young  affection?  Yet 
would  I  have  smothered  and  concealed  it  in  ray 
own  bosom,  had  not  your  delicate  attention  to 
me,  and  some  expressions  (perhaps  they  were 
unguarded)  led  me  to  believe  my  love  was  re 
turned.  Why  should  we  sacrifice  a  life  of  hap 
piness  to  pride  or  resentment  ?  Do  not  despise 
me  for  what  I  have  written,  and  I  will  say  adieu. 
MARY  HUNTINGTOX."' 

He  sat  alone,  with  this  effusion  in  his  hand, 
from  one  he  had  once  warmly,  confidingly  and 
absorbingly  loved.  What  memories  rushed  thick 
and  fast  upon  his  mind  ! — The  hopes,  the  fears, 
the  bliss,  the  agonies  of  youth  seemed  all  pres 
ent.  That  fatal  evening,  when  he  had  rushed 
from  the  presence  of  Mary,  his  hopes  blighted, 
his  fond  affections  thrown  back,  pride,  scorn, 
resentment  in  his  heart — then,  even  then,  at 
that  bitter  moment,  his  wild  projects  of  ambition 
had,  for  the  first  time,  taken  a  definite  form. 


38  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

They  had  grown,  at  once,  into  a  mixed  and  im 
movable  resolve  to  stand  one  day  high  on  the 
ladder  of  ambition,  where  the  proud  girl  who 
had  just  (contemptuously  as  he  thought)  dis 
carded  the  poor,  friendless  and  unknown  youth, 
should  look  up  to  the  station  occupied  by  the 
successful  youth,  and  remember  her  folly.  His 
re'solve  was  partly  fulfilled — and  that  same  girl 
now  sued  for  his  favor — offered  the  hand  he 
once  so  dearly  prized! 

LBTTEB  FROM  THE  Uos.  MR.  ELTHAM. 

"  To  MRS.  MARY  HUNTINGTON  :  —  I  was,  in 
deed,  my  fair  friend,  surprised  and  even  pained, 
at  the  reception  of  your  letter.  You  say,  why 
should  we  sacrifice  a  life  of  happiness  to  pride 
or  resentment?  Believe  me,  I  am  not  influ 
enced  by  either  of  those  motives.  As  for  pride, 
I  might  well  be  proud  of  a  union  Avith  you,  and 
resentment  has  long,  long  ago  passed  from  mind 
— and  with  it  passed  my  early  dream  of  love. 
True,  I  did  love  you,  love  you  deeply,  fervently, 
and  too  confidingly.  But  it  became  necessary 
for  me  to  conquer  that  love  :  I  struggled  long 
and  painfully  to  banish  it  from  my  mind.  At 
last  I  succeeded.  I  crushed,  I  trampled  it  in 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  39 

the  dust — utterly  extinguished  its  last  spark! 
It  can  never  revive !  If  any  of  my  expressions 
have  implied  a  continuation  of  that  love,  they 
were  indeed  unguarded  expressions,  and  I  deep 
ly  regret  them.  My  particular  attentions  to 
you,  you  should  have  imparted  to  friendship.  I 
am  very  sorry  if  they  have  been  the  cause  of 
unhappiness.  I  have  indeed  felt  for  you,  and 
do  still  feel,  a  tender,  an  uncommon  regard  ;  but 
it  is  friendship,  pure  and  passionless.  As  such 
I  sincerely  hope  it  may  be  returned.  Write 
me ;  tell  me  you  have  abandoned  your  wild 
dream  of  love,  and  will  be  my  friend,  and  I 
shall  be  happy. 

CHARLES  ELTHAM. 
Mrs.  Mary  Huntington." 

Mary  read  this  letter  with  all  the  bitterness 
of  wounded  pride,  and  blighted  hope.  Her  last 
dream  of  earthly  bliss  was  over.  Miss  Morton 
went  one  day  into  Eltham's  room,  to  return  a 
book  she  had  borrowed  of  him.  He  was  not  in 
the  room.  As  she  glanced  over  some  papers  on 
his  table,  she  observed  a  folded  and  sealed  letter, 
directed  to  Mrs.  Mary  Huntington.  She  gazed 
at  it  some  time  as  if  to  assure  herself  that  she 
read  aright.  "It  is  then  true,"  she  exclaimed, 
"  he  is  to  be  married  to  my  proud  cousin."  And 


40  THE   UNFOKTUNATE 

rushing  from  the  apartment  she  sought  her  own 
room. 

A  golden  sunset,  and  a  long,  long  ramble  on 
the  prairie,  had  filled  the  minds  of  Eltham  and 
the  lovely  being  at  his  side,  with  poetry  and 
dreams.  "  This  is  wrong — it  is  foolish,"  thought 
Miss  Morton,  as  she  stood  close  by  the  side  of 
him  whose  image  had,  for  long  years,  mingled 
in  her  dreams.  "  These  solitary  walks,  delight 
ful  as  they  are,  are  only  strengthening  aifection, 
it  will  now  be  crime  to  indulge.  And  do  I  in 
deed  love  one  who  will  soon  be  the  husband  of 
another?  I  love  him  still,  in  spite  of  all  my 
better  resolutions !" 

"A  glorious  view,"  said  Eltham.  "One  may 
be  proud  of  his  country,  when  he  looks  on  a 
scene  like  this." 

Here  he  paused.  Then  turning  to  Marcia  lie 
said: 

"  I  have  never  talked  to  you  of  love.  Per 
haps  you  have  never  dreamed  how  deeply  and 
hopelessly  I  have  loved  you." 

"Mr.  Eltham,"  said  Marcia,  with  a  cold  and 
indignant  look  of  pride,  "  I  have  always  consid- 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  41 

ered  you  a  friend,  and  treated  you  as  such ;  if 
you  value  my  friendship,  you  will  not  renew  this 
trifling.  I  cannot  tolerate  insult." 

"  If  my  professions  of  love  are  insults,  I  will 
certainly  never  again  trouble  you  with  the  sub 
ject.  But  I  think  if  you  felt  one  particle  of 
that  friendship  which  you  profess  for  me,  you 
would  at  least  repress  your  anger,  and  treat  me 
with  common  respect.  I  am  not  aware  of  de 
serving  your  contempt." 

"  A  man  deserves  contempt  the  moment  he 
stoops  to " 

She  paused  abruptly,  as  they  reached  the 
house  and  glanced  towards  him  a  look  of  indig 
nation. 

"  To  what  ?  Miss  Morton." 

She  hesitated,  and  then  turned  towards  the 
door,  as  if  to  enter. 

"I  have  a  right  to  demand  an  explanation," 
he  said,  in  a  low,  compressed  tone.  "It  is  un 
generous  to  leave  your  meaning  unexplained." 

And  he  caught  hold  of  her  burning  and  trem 
bling  hand  to  detain  her. 

She  suddenly  and  with  some  effort  withdrew 


42  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

her  hand,  and  with  one  more  glance,  in  which 
love,  pride,  resentment  and  scorn  were  mingled, 
entered  the  house,  followed  by  Eltham. 

In  the  parlor  they  found  several  of  their  young 
acquaintances,  all  in  high  spirits.  Marcia  join 
ed  in  the  mirth  with  more  than  natural  anima 
tion  and  wild  gaiety.  There  was  a  deep,  un 
usually  deep  and  burning  glow  upon  her  cheeks ; 
while  her  lips  and  brow  were  deadly  pale,  and 
there  was  almost  a  maniac  wildness  in  her  eyes. 
The  wild  flowers  the  playful  Eltham  had  twined 
amid  her  hair,  on  the  prairie,  were  allowed  to 
remain,  and  she  took  no  pains  to  arrange  the 
beautiful  but  dishevelled  tresses.  Eltham  was 
reserved  and  gloomy.  Marcia  retired  as  soon 
as  the  company  were  gone,  and  she  wept  as 
wildly  as  she  had  laughed  and  sung. 

The  next  evening  Miss  Morton  sat  on  a  sofa, 
alone,  in  a  richly  furnished  apartment.  The 
poems  of  Julian  were  in  her  hand,  but  she  was 
not  reading.  She  was  startled  from  a  long, 
deep  reverie,  by  the  abrupt  entrance  of  Eltham. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  Miss  Morton,  for  this  intru- 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  43 

sion,"  said  Elteam.     "  I  thought  you  attended 
Mrs  P '•  spendid  party  to-night." 

"And  I  too  believed  you  there,"  she  replied. 

An  awkward  silence. 

uAnd  so  you  read  Julian's  poems  sometimes," 
said  Eltham,  as  he  sat  down  by  Marcia's  side. 

She  made  no  reply,  but  dashed  away  a  gath 
ering  tear. 

u  You  are  sad  to-night,  Marcia.  May  I  be 
permitted  to  inquire  the  cause  ?" 
.  "  The  cause,  certainly,  is  nothing  which  can 
possibly  interest  you,  but  I  am  indeed  sad,  and 
in  no  humor  to  enjoy  company ;  forgive  me  — 
but  I  beg  you  would  leave  me." 

•'  Yes,  I  will  retire  immediately;  but  first  give 
me  leave  to  say  that  your  conduct  towards  me 
has  been  ungenerous — unworthy  a  woman  of 
sense  and  refinement — and  to  me  it  has  been, 
and  still  is,  inexplicable.  Whatever  may  be 
your  remaining  faults,  I  think  you  have  entire 
ly  conquered  your  propensity  to  flatter.  Miss 
Morton  is  quite  as  innocent  of  that  crime  as  I 
am.  Perhaps,  however,  I  spoke  severely — but 
remember  you  have  used  language  to  me,  which, 


44  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

if  used  by  a  gentleman,  would  have  justified  me 
in  demanding  an  explanation.  Now,  Miss  Mor 
ton,  if  you  have  one  particle  of  the  generosity 
or  frankness  I  once  imputed  to  you,  you  will  not 
leave  your  conduct  unexplained.  You  told  me 
last  evening  I  deserved  contempt,  and  you  have 
been  paying  it  off  profusely.  Will  you  now 
condescend  to  inform  me  in  what  manner  I  had 
deserved  it?" 

"  Yes,  I  will.     Your  declaration  of  love  was 
either  insult  to  me,  or  perfidy  to  another.     As  • 
either,  I  have  a  right  to  resent  it." 

"Perfidy  to  another!  Is  it  possible,  Miss 
Morton,  that  you  believe  the  common  report, 
that  I  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  Mrs.  Hunt- 
ington?" 

"  I  did.     And  were  you  not  so  engaged?" 

"  Certainly  not.  But  what  reasons  had  you 
for  believing  this  foolish  story?" 

"A  variety  of  reasons.  In  the  first  place, 
your  very  particular  attentions,  which  I  pre 
sume  you  will  not  deny,  implied  an  engagement. 
And  then  your  sister  believed  it ;  or  at  least  I 
have  reason  to  suppose  she  believed  it,  and  then 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  45 

Miss ,  who,  you  know  is  the  intimate  friend 

and  bosom  confidant  of  my  cousin,  told  me  in 
confidence  you  were  so  engaged.  She,  you 
must  have  discovered,  is  an  artful  and  unprin 
cipled  girl.  But  there  was  another  reason, 
stronger  with  me  than  all  the  rest." 

"And  pray  what  was  that?" 

"  You  certainly  will  not  deny  corresponding 
with  Mrs.  Huntington?" 

u  No,  I  will  not ;  but  there  was  nothing  in 
that  correspondence,  which,  as  your  professed 
lover,  I  would  be  unwilling  you  should  read. 
As  for  what  you  are  pleased  to  call  my  very 
particular  attentions  to  that  lady,  they  were  dic 
tated  entirely  by  friendship — and  so  she  under 
stands  them,  whatever  the  world  may  say  to  the 
contrary.  But  why  so  very  positive  about  the 
correspondence  ?" 

"  Because  I  saw  on  your  table  a  letter  direct 
ed  in  your  handwriting,  to  Mrs.  Mary  Hunt 
ington." 

4*  And  may  I  ask  if  this  belief  that  I  was  en 
gaged  to  another,  influenced  materially  your 
conduct  towards  me?" 


46  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

"  It  did  very  materially." 

"  And  are  you  now  convinced  that  such  an 
engagement  never  existed?" 

"  I  have  certainly  no  right  or  inclination  to 
dispute  your  candor." 

The  conversation  now  took  a  somewhat  gentler 
turn.  We  will  not  stay  to  repeat  it.  But  there 
was  a  wedding  at  Morton's  the  next  fall.  The 
proud  beauty,  the  rich  heiress,  gave  her  hand 
confidingly  to  the  poor  but  noble-hearted  Eltham. 
Six  years  from  that  time  Charles  Eltham,  with 
his  still  beautiful  and  devoted  wife,  were  pleas 
antly  situated  on  the  lovely  banks  of  the  Illinois. 


MOUNTAIN   GIRL.  47 


THE  YOUNG  TUTOR, 


ZELIA  was  an  only  and  idolized  child.  Since 
her  mother's  death,  every  wish,  every  feeling  of 
her  youthful  heart  had  been  indulged.  She 
was  the  image  of  his  lost,  his  loved  one,  and  her 
father  cherished  her  as  the  only  flower  of  his 
lonely  parterre.  On  her  he  expended  all  the 
fervency,  all  the  earnestness  of  his  love.  She 
was  dearer  to  him  than  life  itself;  and  when  he 
witnessed  her  childish  delight  at  Walter's  visits, 
he  cheerfully  broke  through  his  established  rules, 
and  told  him  in  a  few  words,  that  his  presence 
would  be  as  light  to  his  dwelling. 

Her  father  had  been  too  jealous  of  his  beauti 
ful  child  to  suffer  her  to  seek  instruction  away 
from  home:  but  he  was  delighted  at  Walter 
Durand's  proposal  to  become  her  tutor.  She 


48  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

showed  decided  talents  for  music  and  painting  ; 
and,  under  the  instruction  of  the  young  tutor, 
Zelia  made  rapid  progress. 

And  each  day  her  love  grew  stronger,  yet 
hard  she  strove  to  smother  it  in  her  own  bosom. 
We  all  know  the  power  of  love  in  subduing 
prejudices,  and  overcoming  difficulties.  Con 
stantly  with  Walter,  her  thoughts,  her  feelings 
were  imbibed  from,  or  colored  by  his.  Did  Wal 
ter  reciprocate  this  love  ?  Deeply,  passionately. 
Her  beauty  and  child-like  sweetness  had  at  first 
attracted  his  notice,  and  now,  added  to  these 
charms,  he  had  as  it  were  moulded  her  mind  and 
heart,  and  almost  worshipped  the  being  who  had 
been  committed  to  his  charge  ;  but  honor  kept 
her  place  firmly  in  his  heart.  He  felt  that  great 
would  be  his  sin  to  gain  the  love  of  that  young 
happy  heart,  which  could  never,  by  her  father's 
will  be  his ;  and  that  father  had  received  him 
and  trusted  him  as  a  friend.  No !  never  would 
he  betray  the  precious  trust  which  had  been  so 
confidingly  reposed  in  him.  His  mind  was  soon 
determined ;  he  would  fly  from  Zelia,  fly  from 
her  sweet  friendship,  which  had  been  to  him  such 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  49 

happiness.  No  longer  would  his  evenings  be 
passed  in  listening  to  the  eongs  he  had  taught 
her — no  longer  would  he  guide  that  little  hand 
whose  slightest  touch  caused  a  thrill  through  his 
very  heart ;  no  longer  would  he  sit  and  gaze  on 
her  dark  eyes,  forgetting  earth,  heaven,  all  hut 
her  sweet  self.  But,  in  denying  himself  this 
happiness,  he  would  at  least  be  gaining  that  of 
an  appro ving  conscience. 

The  evening  preceding  that  fixed  upon  for  his 
departure,  he  entered  the  house  of  Mr.  Hart- 
land  to  visit  Zelia,  for  the  last  time.  He  paused 
at  the  half  opened  door  of  Zelia's  room.  He 
entered,  and  seating  himself  by  her  side,  clasped 
her  hand  in  his.  She  turned  her  full  gaze  upon 
him,  with  such  a  look  of  confidence,  holy,  con 
fiding  feeling,  that  for  the  first  time  the  thrilling 
thought  'She  loves  me!'  rose  in  his  heart,  and 
almost  overcame  his  fortitude.  Could  he  de 
termine  IIOAV,  when  he  first  felt  assured  that  his 
love  was  returned,  to  dash  from  his  lips  the 
brimming  cup  ?  Could  he  resolve  to  destroy  the 
beaming  glance  of  those  eyes  so  full  of  deep 
feeling! 


50  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

His  resolution  lingered,  his  lips  faltered,  the 
tempter  was  fast  weaving  his  net  around  him : 
but  with  a  firm,  a  strong  effort,  he  threw  from 
him  the  weakness,  and  in  a  low  but  calm  voice 
told  Zelia  of  business  that  called  him  far  from 
her.  In  an  instant  she  was  transformed ;  those 
eyes,  but  late  revealing  the  depths  of  her  pure 
loving  heart,  now  sank  beneath  his  glance  ;  tears 
gathered  and  fell  over  her  pale  and  agitated 
face ;  and  her  whole  frame  quivered  with  excess 
of  emotion.  Durand  could  bear  it  no  longer ; 
and  drawing  her  head  unresistingly  to  his  bosom, 
he  mingled  his  tears  with  hers. 

"  Zelia,  dearest  love,  I  can  no  longer  endure 
the  burden  of  silence — silence  that,  like  a 
mountain,  has  weighed  down  my  very  heart.  I 
loved,  nay,  idolized  you,  but  I  dare  not  ask  you 
to  love  me  in  return.  Your  father — who  has 
received  me  as  a  son — in  whose  house  I  have 
enjoyed  more  happiness-  than  I  ever  thought  or 
dreamed  of.  ...  Can  I  then  ask  you  to  love  me  ? 
Can  I  wish  to  take  from  him  his  beloved  child — 
her  on  whom  his  very  life  rests.  Can  I  deceive 
him  who  has  trusted  me  and  be  worthy  of  your 


MOUNTAIN    UIRL.  51 

love?  No,  Zelia,  his  dear  heart  shall  never  be 
saddened  by  me — by  me  on  whom  he  has  lav 
ished  so  much  love." 

"  But  you  mistake  if  you  think  that  Zelia, 
who  has  loved  you,  can  ever  be  the  bride  of 
another.  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say, 
that  I  am  young ;  but,  believe  me,  this  poor 
heart  can  never  know  change  until  death." 

Mr.  Hartland,  who  had  been  listening  for  the 
last  half  hour,  to  the  conversation  that  passed 
between  the  two  lovers,  now  entered  the  room, 
and  taking  Zelia  by  the  hand,  he  said,  while  a 
tear  trickled  down  his  pallid  cheek  : 

u  My  dear,  my  only  child,  you  have  ever  been 
all  to  me  that  a  child  could  be  ;  but  ere  long  I 
feel  that  I  must  be  an  inhabitant  of  the  S[  hit 
land,  and  leave  you  to  share  the  friendship  of  a 
cold-hearted  world.  Zelia,  dear  child,  you  know 
not  how  long  I  have  read  your  young  heart,  and 
that  of  Walter's.  Nay,  tremble  not,  my  chil 
dren  ;  I  heard  your  last  conversation  and  find 
that  you  ave  worthy  of  my  love  and  each  other. 
For  months  I  have  watched  your  growing  love, 


52  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

and  could  not  wish  to  check  it.  Guard  her, 
Walter,  guard  her  young,  pure  heart.  I  now 
give  her  to  you." 

We  will  not  stay  to  repeat  the  conversation 
which  followed ;  but  will  say  that  Mr.  Hartland 
had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  his  beautiful  daugh 
ter  married  to  Walter  Durand,  ere  the  autumn 
winds  withered  the  summer's  rich  bloom. 

Three  years  passed  away  and  left  Zelia  a  poor 
and  broken-hearted  orphan.  Walter,  by  degrees, 
became  neglectful  of  her,  and  at  parties,  he 
would  chat,  laugh  and  dance  with  the  trifling 
and  vain,  while  the  more  sensible  portion  of  the 
company  would  gather  around  her,  delighted  by 
her  fine  manners  and  polished  conversation.  But 
what  to  her  was  the  admiration  of  the  multitude, 
when  she  was  suffering  for  the  want  of  the  sun 
ny  beams  of  affection  ?  Her  heart  was  like  a 
sensitive  plant,  and  shrank  as  instinctively  from 
the  slightest  breath  of  unkindness  as  does  the 
Mimosa  from  an  uncongenial  atmosphere.  She 
became  feeble  and  melancholy;  and  when  he 
demanded  her  reason  for  refusing  to  attend  par 
ties,  she  gave  him  to  understand  that  she 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  53 

thought  her  presence  would  be  '  little  missed 
by  him,  and  she  preferred  remaining  at  home. 

One  evening,  Walter  returned  home  at  a  late 
hour  and  found  Zelia  lying  upon  a  bed,  the  ser 
vants  weeping,  and  a  physician  in  attendance, 
who  said  she  was  suffering  from  a  spasm  on  the 
heart,  which  he  attributed  to  fatigue.  She  soon 
revived,  and  greeted  him  with  a  smile  of  unut 
terable  sadness,  but  no  more  of  reproach  escaped 
her  lips.  She  then  sank  into  a  stupor,  and  re 
mained  some  days  in  a  state  of  unconsciousness. 
During  this  time,  he  was  unremitting  in  his  at 
tentions,  and  as  soon  as  her  strength  was  suf 
ficiently  restored  to  hear  him  with  safety,  he 
fell  on  his  knees  and  most  earnestly  implored 
her  forgiveness.  She  replied:  "My  dear  Wal 
ter,  may  God  forgive  you  as  freely,  as  fully  as 
I  do." 

But  in  vain  were  all  his  cares  to  restore  her 
to  health.  She  wasted  away,  like  a  flower  of 
earth.  Eminent  physicians  were  consulted,  but 
to  no  effect.  Her  disease  was  one  which  no 
medicine  could  remove. 

It  was  a  beautiful  evening  in  September.    Ze- 


54  THF  UNFORTUNATE 

lia  awoke  from  a  sweet  slumber  and  desired  to 
speak  with  her  husband.  He  entered  and  ap 
proached  the  bed,  when  Zelia  took  him  by  the 
hand,  saying :  "  My  dear  Walter,  I  have  much 
that  I  wish  to  say  before  I  leave  this  world.  I 
blame  myself  that  I  did  not  make  sufficient  ex 
ertion  to  win  you  back,  and  render  your  home 
the  most  attractive  place  on  earth.  I  yielded 
too  soon  to  gloom  and  despair;  and  it  was  but 
natural  that  you,  in  health  and  cheerfulness, 
should  seek  society  more  congenial  with  your 
feelings.  For  this,  my  great  mistake,  I  beg 
your  forgiveness.  Let  your  future  life,  as  far 
as  may  be,  atone  for  the  errors  of  the  past. 
Seek  to  do  good,  and  prepare  to  meet  our  dear 
parents  in  that  world  where  parting  will  be  no 
more.  Dear  Walter,  farewell." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  they  exchanged  a 
parting  kiss;  and  both  remained  silent.  He 
watched  her  in  grief,  and  after  a  few  moments  of 
apparent  slumber,  she  once  more  roused  herself, 
and  a  smile  of  heavenly  peace  rested  on  her 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  55 

countenance,  and,  giving  him  a  look  of  forgiv 
ing  tenderness,  her  spirit  departed. 

For  Zelia  now  poor  Walter  weeps. 
And  o'er  her  grave  hU  vigil  keeps. 
Nor  does  he  leave  her  grassy  mound 
But  lies  upon  the  cold,  damp  ground. 


56  THE   UNFORTUNATE 


A  CHEERING  THOUGHT, 


My  trials  now  on  earth  are  o'er, 
And  I  can  suffer  here  no  more, 
Calmly  I  now  resign  my  breath, 
And  welcome  thou  messenger  of  death. 

Joyfully  I  leave  .all  things  below 
And  gladly  to  my  Savior  go, 
Angels  will  waft  my  soul  away, 
Forever  with  the  blest  to  stay. 

Friends,  whom  I  leave  behind  awhile, 
Soon  you  shall  share  my  Savior's  smile 
If  faithful  while  on  earth  you  roam, 
Angels  shall  waft  your  spirits  home. 

Farewell,  my  friends,  weep  not  for  me, 
Since  Christ  hath  set  my  spirit  free, 
No  troubles  cross  my  peaceful  breast, 
For  in  my  Savior's  arms  I  rest. 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  57 


THE   ORPHAN   CHILD, 


I  soon  must  close  my  eyes  in  death, 
And  who  will  receive  my  parting  kiss? 
And  who  will  shed  the  farewell  tear. 
When  the  last  rays  of  life  disappear  7 

Who  will  make  the  shroud  for  me  ? 

And  who  will  my  pall-bearers  be  ? 

And  who  shall  stand  in  the  sacred  desk, 

When  my  soul  hath  reached  a  heaven  of  rest  ? 

And  who'll  prepare  my  narrow  bed? 
And  who  will  close  the  coffin-lid? 
Who  will  lower  me  in  the  narrow  cell, 
When  my  spirit  doth  with  Jesus  dwell  ? 

And  who  shall  watch  the  fragrant  rose 
That  decks  the  grave  where  I  repose? 
And  who  will  cull  the  rose  that  blooms 
Upon  my  meek. and  early  tomb  ? 

i 

Who  will  raise  the  marble  stone 
At  my  head  when  I  am  gone  ? 
And  who  shall  read,  as  they  pass  by, 
They  too.  like  me  must  faint  and  die  ? 

3* 


58  THE   UNFORTUNATE 


THE  ORPHAN'S  BENEFACTRESS, 


"  GOOD  MORNING,  my  dear;  why  do  you 
weep  ?"  said  Virginia,  as  she  placed  her  hand 
upon  the  shoulder  of  a  little  girl,  who  stood  at 
her  door.  She  replied  as  she  wiped  away  the 
falling  tear :  "It  is  not  for  myself,  but  for  my 
mother." 

"  Your  mother,  child  ;  what  is  the  matter  ?" 
said  Virginia,  drawing  her  to  her  side.  "  Be 
lieve  me  your  friend  and  tell  me  all." 

"  My  mother,"  said  the  trembling  girl,  "  is 
very  sick  and  has  nothing  for  her  comfort." 

"  What  ?  have  you  no  father  ?"  said  Virgin 
ia,  anxious  to  know  more  of  the  little  stranger's 
history.  "  And  what  is  your  name  ?" 

"  My  name  is  Julia  Mason,  whose  father  died 
some  years  ago." 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  59 

"  Well,  my  dear,  do  not  weep.     I  will  assist 

you." 

Julia's  heart  swelled  with  emotion  as  she  ac 
companied  her  kind  benefactress  to  the  lonely 
dwelling  of  her  afflicted  mother.  On  reaching 
the  house,  Virginia  entered,  finding  Mrs.  Mason 
lying  upon  a  pile  of  straw,  in  one  corner  of  the 
desolate  room,  apparently  asleep.  Julia  ap 
proached  the  spot,  and  kneeling  by  her  side, 
whispered  in  a  soft  tone :  "  Dear  mother,  here 
is  a  kind  lady  who  has  promised  to  be  our  friend, 
and  we  may  again  be  happy." 

At  that  moment  Virginia  approached,  and 
taking  the  invalid  by  the  hand  said :  "  My 
friend,  you  are  certainly  afflicted ;"  while  a 
tear  stole  down  her  blooming  cheek.  Mrs. 
Mason  only  answered  by  tears.  "  But,"  said 
Virginia,  "  the  Lord  is  able  to  do  great  things 
for  you  yet,  and  I  trust  that  I  may  be  an  in 
strument  in  his  hand  of  doing  something  for 

you." 

Mrs.  Mason  thanked  the  lady  for  her  kind 
ness,  and  Virginia  took  her  leave,  promising  to 
call  again  the  next  morning. 


60  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

The  next  day  dawned  brightly,  and  Virginia 
arose  with  a  glad  heart,  and  preparing  the  morn 
ing's  meal  in  haste,  she  sallied  forth  in  pursuit 
of  her  benevolent  purpose.  She  thought  the 
sun  had  never  shone  so  sweetly  before,  and  the 
beams  that  strayed  through  the  shrubbery,  as 
she  crossed  a  little  stream  on  her  way,  seemed 
dancing  gaily  on  the  grass  plot,  as  if  playing  at 
bo-peep  among  the  beautiful  flowers,  and  the 
brook  itself  had  never  rung  its  chimes  so  music 
ally  before.  She  did  not  know  that  the  wires 
which  gave  forth  all  this  melody  were  vibrating 
in  her  own  heart ;  and  that  gratified  benevo 
lence  was  the  seraph-minstrel  whose  magic  touch 
was  thrilling  the  silvery  cords,  whose  mysteri 
ous  music  tones  are  but  stray  notes — detached 
chimes  of  that  anthem,  whose  full  harmonial 
symphonies  roll  ever  from  the  angelic  harps  that 
surround  the  throne  of  Eternal  Majesty,  whose 
eye  of  love  is  never  clouded  or  dim ;  but  sur 
veys  with  equal  care  the  vast  and  ponderous 
globes  which  wheel  their  circling  marches 
through  the  unknown  realms  of  trackless  space, 
and  the  frail  children  of  his  bounty  who  bloom, 


MOUNTAIN    fcUKL. 

and  fade,  and  die,  in  this  diminutive  portion  of 
his  domains. 

Virginia  rapped  lightly  at  the  door,  and  was 
admitted  by  Julia,  on  whose  features  rested  a 
shade  of  sadness ;  but  it  seemed  so  blended 
with  unmurmuring  patience,  that  the  beholder 
could  not  fail  to  perceive  the  young  spirit  had 
been  moulded  under  the  influences  of  those 
principles  that  kindled  the  undying  flame  upon 
the  innermost  shrine  of  the  heart ;  the  pure 
altar-fire  of  love  and  devotion,  which,  purging 
the  soul  from  the  dross  of  false  pride  and  un 
due  ambition,  teaches  it  to  look  for  happiness 
where  alone  it  can  be  found,  namely,  in  the 
paths  of  virtue  and  piety.  The  poor  woman 
had  passed  a  restless  night,  and  was  much  ex 
hausted,  and  it  would  seem  that  Virginia  had 
anticipated  this,  for  she  had  brought  ^,n>e  e<>i- 
dial  and  refreshments.  After  partaking  of 
some  nourishment,  the  sick  one  was  able  to  sit 
up  a  little,  and  thanked  her  .visitor  for  her  kind 
attention. 

"•  Heaven  has  bestowed  upon  you  a  kind 
heart,"  said  she,  "may  you  never  feel  its  warm 


€2  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

affections  crushed  by  the  heartlessness  of  a  sel 
fish  world,  or  blighted  by  the  chill  blast  of  pen 
ury  and  desolation." 

Mrs.  Mason  informed  Virginia  that  they  had 
formerly  possessed  a  good  property,  but  her 
husband  had  sold  all,  and  gone  to  the  far  West, 
where  he  purchased  a  large  tract  of  land,  and 
had  commenced  improvements  preparatory  to 
moving  his  family  there,  when  he  became  a  vic 
tim  to  the  fevers  of  the  climate.  Mrs.  Mason 
wrote  frequently,  but  could  learn  nothing  satis 
factory,  and  finally  received  a  letter  informing 
her  that  the  title  under  which  her  husband  pur 
chased  was  not  good  ;  so  she  was  left  penniless 
to  struggle  alone  life's  thorny  way,  with  none 
to  protect  her,  save  Him  who  is  the  orphan's 
father,  and  widow's  God.  "  I  am  now  alone 
in  the  world  save  this  poor  orphan,"  said  the 
mother,  as  she  put  back  the  tresses  from  the 
fair  brow  of  Julia  who  was  kneeling  by  her  side. 
Tears  of  joy  glistened  on  Virginia's  face  as  she 
bestowed  her  gifts,  and  saw  the  expressions  of 
gratitude  enliven  her  pallid  features.  "  You 
are  an  angel  of  mercy,"  said  the  suftering  one, 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  68 

as  the  warm  blood  rose  even  to  her  marble 
brow.  "  Language  is  too  poor  to  speak  the 
emotions  of  the  grateful  heart.  I  can  never 
repay  you ;  but  He  who  planted  in  your  heart 
the  principles  of  active  benevolence,  will  be  ever 
near  you  to  shed  upon  your  spirit  the  radiance 
of  love." 

Having  arranged  a  comfortable  bed,  and  other 
things  as  far  as  her  circumstances  would  admit, 
Virginia  returned  home  promising  to  call  again 
soon. 

A  few  evenings  after  this  scene  a  joyous 
party  assembled  at  Mr.  Wilton's  in  honor  of  his 
daughter's  birth-day.  We  need  not  stay  to 
describe  the  decorations  or  illuminations  of  the 
house,  for  at  the  tune  of  which  we  are  speaking, 
the  rage  for  display  and  maintaining  the  just 
rank  in  ostentatious  luxuries  had  not  attained  its 
medium  height.  But  as  every  one  loved  Vir 
ginia  for  her  unpretending  goodness,  they  were 
not  the  less  happy  to  tender  their  homage  to 
her  this  evening,  as  the  queen  of  the  festivities. 
The  Misses  Nealands  were  there,  splendidly  at 
tired  in  white  satin,  and  turning  to  Virginia, 


04  THE    UNFOKTUNATE 

asked  if  Mr.  Elmer  were  not  to  be  of  her  party.. 
"  I  do  not  know,"  said  she,  "•  is  he  not  here  ?  I 
presume  father  invited  him." 

The  dance  had  been  some  time  begun  when  a 
plain,  but  elegantly  dressed  gentleman  entered 
the  room,  and  after  the  usual  ceremonies  took  a 
proffered  seat  beside  Mrs.  Nealand,  with  whom 
he  was  slightly  acquainted,  she  having  managed 
to  procure  herself  an  introduction  to  him,  since 
his  recent  abode  in  the  village. 

"  Who  is  that  beautiful  girl  in  the  dance," 
inquired  Mr.  Elmer,  after  a  pause  in  conversa 
tion,  "  that  one,  so  simply  attired  in  plain  mus 
lin,  with  the  white  rose  in  her  hair'!1  She  seems 
the  personification  of  cheerful  goodness." 

"That  is  Miss  Wilton,"  said  the  superfine 
lady,  biting  her  lip  wiih  vexation.  "Amelia, 
my  love,  will  you  take  the  fan?  The  heat  is 
oppressive.  I  do  not  wonder  you  decline 
dancing." 

The  tutored  damsel  bowed  and  smiled  lan 
guidly  and  by  mere  chance  raised  her  beautiful 
eyes  with  deliberate  timidity  to  the  gaze  of  the 
stranger.  It  was  plain  from  Mrs.  N.'s  satisfied 


MOUNTAIN    GIKL.  65 

look,  that  he  regarded  her  with  admiration,  for 
she  was  really  a  lovely  girl.  But  his  gaze  was 
soon  carelessly  withdrawn,  as  if  those  features 
lacked  some  lustre  of  expression  that  might 
radiate  upon  the  mirror  lie  carried  in  his  heart. 
He  was  a  noble  looking  man,  in  the  prime  of 
manhood.  The  expansive  brow  was  finely 
marked,  and  his  eye  was  the  mirror  of  all  the 
noble  qualities  that  dwelt  in  his  breast.  Calm,, 
clear,  and  discriminating,  it  looked  to  the  face 
divine  for  the  delineation  of  the  soul.  A  shade, 
approaching  to  sadness,  rested  on  his  features. 
He  had  returned  to  his  native  land  after  a  long 
absence,  to  find  the  household  hearth  deserted, 
dead,  or  dispersed  he  knew  not  where.  He  was 
now  in  search  of  a  wife,  even  as  Mrs.  Nealand 
had  divined ;  but  he  sought  not  wealth  or  su 
perficial  accomplishments,  but  a  true,  kind  heart, 
on  which  his  own  might  repose  its  cares,  and 
lavish  its  wealth  of  affection. 

Just  as  the  self-satisfied  Mrs.  N.  had  begun 
to  congratulate  herself  upon  the  certainty  of 
Amelia's  producing  an  impression  upon  the  rich 
stranger,  he  remarked :  "  It  is  long  since  I  have 


-66          THE  UNFORTUNATE 

danced,  but  I  have  a  great  mind  to  join  the 
fantastic  measure.  May  I  presume  upon  your 
favor  for  an  introduction  to  Miss  Wilton?" 

It  was  with  ill-concealed  chagrin  that  she  pre 
sented  him  to  Virginia,  and  saw  him  lead  the 
dance  with  her,  plainly  clad  as  she  was,  while 
her  own  petted  idol  was  left  to  languish  in  her 
well  wom  delicacy  of  appearance. 

The  evening  passed  in  mirth  and  hilarity,  and 
an  early  hour  saw  all  parties  quietly  seeking 
that  repose  which  is  as  necessary  after  enjoy 
ment  as  labor. 

"  I  wonder  where  Virginia  can  be  going  ?" 
said  Mrs.  Turner,  as  she  was  fanning  herself  in 
Mrs.  Nealand's  parlor,  at  sunset,  a  few  days 
after  the  party. 

"  I  see  her  passing  every  day,  at  about  the 
same  hour,"  replied  Mrs.  N.  "  I  should  hard 
ly  think  she  could  find  time  to  leave  work  every 
day  to  ramble,  being  so  penurious  as  she  is." 

"  Penurious?"  said  Mrs.  S.,  "  I  thought  her 
a  generous  hearted  girl.  I  believe  she  is  the 
only  one  who  could  fulfill  the  arduous  duties  of 
her  station.  I  know  she  is  sadly  tied  to  drudg- 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  67 

ery,  poor  thing  ;  perhaps  that  may  be  an  excuse 
for  her  miserly  turn." 

It  so  happened  that  Mr.  Elmer  was  enjoying 
a  social  chat  with  Mr.  Nealand  at  the  farther 
part  of  the  room,  yet  he  evidently  heard  the 
conversation,  as  it  was  intended  he  should. 
A  shade  of  painful  dissatisfaction  passed  over 
his  fine  features  for  a  moment,  for  he  could  not 
but  perceive  that  malice  dictated  her  speech. 
And  it  produced  a  contrary  effect  from  what 
she  intended,  for  it  awakened  in  him  a  slight 
interest  in  behalf  of  Virginia,  as  he  wished  to 
know  what  secret  cause  existed  for  this  display 
of  unkind  feeling.  He  was,  however  a  stranger, 
and  could  not  hope  to  learn  the  secret  at  pres 
ent. 

"  I  am  told  there  is  a  desolate  lady  near  the 
village,"  said  a  gentleman,  one  day,  as  he  en 
tered  a  store,  "  who  is  suffering  severely  from 
want  and  disease.  Indeed,  it  is  thought  she  is 
near  death." 

"  And  are  there  none  to  relieve  her  wants  ?" 
asked  Mr.  Elmer,  with  surprise. 

"  She  has  no  friends  that  I  know  of,"  said 


68  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

the  gentleman,  "  but  Miss  Wilton,  I  am  told, 
has  been  very  charitable  to  her  indeed,  and 
visits  her  every  day,  though  she  is  no  relative 
.„  of  hers." 

"  No  friends  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Elmer ;  "  will 
you  please  to  direct  me  to  her  residence  ?" 

Mr.  Turner,  as  this  was  the  gentleman's 
name,  with  a  somewhat  mortified  air,  gave  him 
the  direction,  and  he  started  in  pursuit  of  the 
victime  of  poverty.  He  rapped  at  the  misera 
ble  abode,  and  was  admitted  by  a  lovely  girl 
upon  whom  he  gazed  with  more  than  ordinary 
interest  for  a  moment,  and  then  took  a  proffered 
seat.  The  little  girl  retired  to  another  room, 
and  soon  Miss  Virginia  Wilton  came  out  and 
passed  the  compliments  of  the  morning. 

"  I  am  glad  to  find  myself  preceded  by  an 
angel  of  mercy  to  this  place.  Will  you  be  so 
kind  as  to  make  use  of  this,  for  the  benefit  of 
the  poor  woman  ?"  said  Mr.  Elmer,  as  he  hand 
ed  her  his  purse. 
*i 

"  I  fear,  Sir,"  said  the  lady,  "  that  money 
can  avail  little  with  her.  We  had  the  advice 


MOUNTAIN   UIRL.  69 

of  a  physician  this  morning,  and  lie  thinks  she 
oan  survive  but  a  short  time." 

Is  the  sick  woman  a  friend  of  yours  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Elmer. 

"  I  have  never  seen  her,  Sir,  till  within  a  few 
days,  except  at  church." 

Mr.  Elmer  took  his  leave,  saying,  "  If  there 
is  not  enough  to  supply  her  wants  I  will  leave 
more." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Virginia,  "  this  will  do 
for  the  present." 

Just  then  a  low  moan  from  the  inner  room 
caught  their  ear,  and  Virginia  hastened  to  the 
bed-side  of  the  sufferer,  where  she  found  her  in 
the  agonies  of  death.  She  smiled,  but  it  was 
chilled  by  a  fearful  pang ;  a  shudder,  a  faint 
gasp  for  breath,  and  all  was  over.  Julia  held 
the  hand  of  her  mother's  corpse.  The  neigh 
bors  were  immediately  summoned  and  the  last 
sad  offices  for  the  dead  performed.  The  poor 
little  orphan's  grief  was  assuaged  by  the  kind 
hearted  Miss  Wilton,  who  took  her  home  and 
cared  for  her  as  a  sister. 

This  act  of  benevolence  awakened  the  warm- 


70  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

est  affection  in  the  heart  of  Mr.  Elmer,  who* 
from  this  time  paid  his  addresses  entirely  to 
Miss  Wilton,  and  in  less  than  one  year  she  was 
made  the  happy  bride  of  George  Elmer.  With 
them  the  little  orphan  ever  found  a  welcome 
home. 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  71 


THE  REWARD  OF  A  DUTIFUL  SON, 


MR.  LEWIS  had,  by  industry  and  economy, 
accumulated  a  large  property,  and  was  consid 
ered  immensely  rich.  But  riches  take  to  them 
selves  wings,  and  fly  away  ;  and  .so  it  was  with 
Mr.  Lewis's  riches  at  the  time  of  his  death.  He 
was  greatly  involved  in  debt,  and  each  of  his 
creditors,  eager  to  secure  their  full  amount, 
crowded  heavily  Mrs.  Lewis.  She  was  a  very 
intelligent  woman,  proud  spirited,  and  would 
have  parted  with  every  cent  rather  than  one  of 
his  creditors  should  remain  unpaid.  At  length 
his  estate  was  settled,  leaving  but  a  small  sum 
for  the  support  of  Mrs.  Lewis,  an  aged  father, 
$nd  one  child,  who  was  about  twelve  years  of 
age.  Mrs.  Lewis  soon  left  her  splendid  man- 


72 


THE   UNFORTUNATE 


sion,  walks,  gardens,  yards,  and  all  that  was 
pleasant  within  and  without.  She  purchased 
a  small  cottage  in  a  more  retired  part  of  the 
village,  where  she  was  enabled,  by  her  industry 
and  economy,  to  keep  Charles  at  school  until  his 
eighteenth  year ;  and,  during  this  period,  he  had 
made  great  proficiency  in  his  studies. 

Charles  was  a  very  bright,  intelligent,  and 
interesting  fellow,  and  a  gentleman  in  every 
respect. 

It  was  a  beautiful  evening  in  September — 
the  moon  poured  forth  its  gentle  rays  through 
the  windows  of  Mrs.  L.'s  cottage,  as  she  and 
her  son  sat  by  the  fire  which  was  blazing  upon 
the  hearth,  until  the  village  clock  had  tolled  the 
hour  of  ten.  Charles  did  not  like  to  commence 
the  subject,  which  had  rested  with  such  weight 
upon  his  mind  through  the  day ;  but  he  had  re 
solved  that  he  would  not  retire  to  rest  until  he 
had  consulted  his  mother  concerning  his  depart 
ure  to  the  village  of  T .  At  length  he  said, 

with  a  tremulous  voice,  "Mother,  our  little  bank 
is  nearly  expended,  and  I  think  I  had  better 
try  to  secure  a  situation  in  some  shop,  where 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  73 

my  salary  will  be  sufficient  to  provide  you  and 
grandfather  with  the  comforts  of  life.  As  I 
was  looking  over  a  paper  yesterday,  my  eyes 
rested  on  an  advertisement,  which  stated  that 

Mr.  C. ,  wholesale  merchant  in  the  village 

of  T ,  was  in  want  of  a  clerk,  and  if  both 

liked,  he  would  pay  a  liberal  sum.  Now,  moth 
er,  if  you  think  best,  I  will  prepare  to  leave 
here  on  Monday,  and  perhaps  he  will  give  me  a 
situation." 

There  was  a  profound  silence  for  some  min 
utes.  At  length  she  replied',  while  the  tears 
stole  down  her  cheeks,  "  Charles,  we  should 
feel  very  lonely  if  you  were  to  leave  us." 

Charles,  perceiving  the  emotion  of  his  moth 
er,  said,  with  a  cheerful  voice,  "Yes  ;  but  then 
it  is  only  about  seventy  miles,  and  I  shall  visit 
you  quite  often — besides,  f  shall  write  every 
now  and  then." 

Mrs.  Lewis  was  not  prepared  for  this  dilem 
ma,  although  she  well  knew  that  Charles  must 
ere  long  leave  home,  to  act  for  himself,  and 
share  the  friendship  of  a  cold-hearted  world; 
yet  she  looked  upon  it  at  a  distance. 


74  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

"  Charles,"  said  Mrs.  Lewis,  "  I  am  not  pre 
pared  to  give  you  an  answer  to-night ;  I  will 
think  of  it,  and  talk  more  with  you  in  the 
morning." 

Charles  saw  that  his  mother  was  too  much 
affected  to  press  the  question  further,  and  get 
ting  up,  he  bid  her  good  night,  and  left  the 
room.  On  reaching  his  room,  he  knelt  beside 
his  bed,  and  poured  out  his  soul  in  prayer  to 
God,  and  earnestly  besought  Him  that  He  would 
guide  and  protect  them  through  all  the  varied 
scenes  of  life :  that  their  souls  might  be  pre 
pared  for  an  eternal  rest  in  heaven.  Charles 
spent  that  night  in  meditation,  and  anxiously 
looked  for  the  coming  morn. 

At  length  the  tardy  morn  appeared,  and 
Charles  arose  to  hear  the  decision  of  his  mother. 
Charles,  feeling  so  much  anxiety  upon  the  sub 
ject,  could  not  wait  for  his  mother  to  commence 
tlie  conversation. 

"  Well,  mother,  how  have  you  decided?  Do 
you  think  I  had  better  try  my  fortune  ?" 

"  Charles,"  said  his  mother,  "  I  know  that  it 
is  very  essential  that  you  should  do  something 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  75 

for  a  livelihood.  The  thought  of  your  leaving 
home  is  heart-rending  to  me." 

"  Yes,  mother,  it  will  be  very  unpleasant  to 
be  separated ;  but  I  trust  that  in  a  few  years  I 
shall  be  enabled  to  save  enough  of  my  wages 
to  secure  a  comfortable  home  for  you  and 
grandfather ;  and  then  we  will  enjoy  each  oth 
er's  society  until  we  are  separated  by  the  icy 
hand  of  death." 

At  length  the  time  for  his  departure  arrived. 
The  carriage-wheels  were  seen  rolling  rapidly 
to  the  dock,  and  Charles,  after  taking  his  leave, 
seated  himself  in  the  coach,  leaving  his  afflict 
ed  mother  standing  in  the  door  of  her  cottage. 
Charles  felt  that  this  Avas  the  most  trying  scene 
that  he  had  ever  experienced  ;  and  covering 
his  face  with  his  hands,  gave  vent  to  a  flood  of 
tears. 

On  reaching  the  mansion  of  Mr.  C ,  he 

immediately  sought  an  interview  with  him,  and 
readily  informed  him  of  the  object  of  his  visit. 

Mr.  C was  much  pleased  with  his  appear. 

ance,  and  informed  him  that  he  would  give  him 
employ  as  long  as  they  were  both  suited. 


76  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

Charles  felt  that  Providence  had  opened  a  door 
whereby  he  might,  by  industry  and  economy, 
prepare  a  home  for  his  bereft  mother  and  grand 
father. 

At  length  the  night  approached,  and  Charles 
was  conducted  into  an  upper  room,  which  was 
allotted  him.  Charles,  after  looking  around  the 
apartment,  sat  down  to  read  a  chapter  in  the 
Bible  which  had  been  given  him  by  his  mother 
on  the  day  of  his  departure.  After  he  had 
finished  the  chapter,  he  knelt  down  in  the  pres 
ence  of  Him  who  hath  pledged  himself  that  He 
will  not  turn  them  away  empty  who  ask  in  faith. 
The  next  morning,  Charles  arose  with  a  light 
heart,  to  perform  the  duties  which  devolved 
upon  him.  In  a  few  days  he  wrote  a  letter  to 
his  mother,  informing  her*that  he  had  been  suc 
cessful  in  getting  a  situation  with  Mr.  C , 

and  promised  to  write  again  at  the  end  of  the 
month. 

Days  and  weeks  passed  pleasantly  with 
Charles,  and  at  the  end  of  the  month  he  wrote  a 
long  and  affectionate  letter  to  his  mother,  en 
closing  twenty  dollars.  He  said,  "  Here,  moth- 


MOUNTAIN   GIRL.  77 

er,  is  a  little  money,  which  will  be  of  some  use 
to  you  ;  and,  before  this  is  gone,  I  hope,  by  the 
blessing  of  God,  that  I  shall  be  enabled  to  send 
you  more." 

Mr.  C was  one  of  the  first  "in  society, 

and  wished  to  have  all  around  him  bear  an 
aristocratic  appearance.  Month  after  month 

passed  on,  and  Mr.  C often  looked  at 

Charles,  and  wondered  what  could  be  the  cause 
of  his  being  so  poorly  clad.  One  day,  on  enter 
ing  the  counting-room,  he  found  Charles  alone, 
and  then  resolved  to  ascertain  the  real  cause. 
He  said,  in  a  mild  tone,  "  Charles,  if  your  sala 
ry  is  not  sufficient  to  supply  you  with  fashion 
able  apparel,  I  will  increase  it." 

Charles  seemed  greatly  embarrassed,  and 
said,  "0,  yes,  Sir — amply  sufficient."  Mr. 
C saw  that  Charles  was  somewhat  embar 
rassed,  and  left  the  room. 

Some  few  weeks  after,  Mr.  C was  obliged 

to  leave  home  for  the  space  of  eight  or  ten  days 
on  business,  leaving  his  affairs  in  the  charge  of 
Charles  Lewis.  It  was  a  very  warm  day  in 
July,  and  Mr.  C had  rode  many  miles  be- 


78  THE  UNFORTUNATE 

'  neath  the  scorching  rays  of  the  sun,  and  on 
reaching  a  very  respectable  hotel,  he  called  to 

rest  awhile  in  the  heat  of  the  day.  Mr.  C 

knew  that  Mrs.  Lewis  resided  in  this  village, 
and  after  taking  some  refreshment,  feeling  a 
great  anxiety  to  learn  her  situation,  he  inquired 
of  the  landlord  where  Mrs.  Lewis  resided.  The 
landlord  soon  informed  him,  and  soon  he  was  on 
his  way  to  her  cottage,  under  the  pretence  of 
wishing  to  purchase  it.  On  reaching  the  cot 
tage,  he  knocked  at  the  door,  and  was  accosted 
by  a  middle-aged  woman,  who  very  politely  in 
vited  him  to  walk  in.  He  soon  informed  her  of 
his  business,  and  asked  her  if  she  wished  to  dis 
pose  of  her  cottage.  Mrs.  Lewis  hesitated  a  mo 
ment,  and  then  said — "  I  cannot  give  you  an  an 
swer  until  I  have  consulted  my  son." 

"  Your  son — where  is  he?" 

"He  is  a  clerk  for  a  wholesale  merchant  in 
the  village  of  T '." 

"What  is  his  name?"  inquired  Mr.  C . 

"  Charles  Lewis,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  and 
a  worthy  lad  he  is.  He  is  all  that  we  have  to 
depend  upon  for  our  support,  and  I  am  quite 


MOUNTAIN   GIRL.  79 

sure  that  he  sends  us  all,  or  nearly  all  of  his 
wages." 

"  Charles  Lewis !"  said  Mr.  C ,  appear 
ing  much  surprised,  "  he  is  my  clerk." 

"Your  clerk?"  rejoined  Mrs.  Lewis,  while 
her  heart  beat  with  joy  at  the  thought  of  hear 
ing  so  directly  from  her  long  absent  son.  After 

a  long  conversation,  Mr.  C arose,  and 

placing  a  well-filled  purse  into  the  old  man's 
hand,  said — "Here  is  a  small  sum,  which  may 
be  of  some  use  to  you,  if  you  will  accept  it." 

The  old  man  raising  his  head  from  his  staff, 
while  the  tears  stole  down  his  withered  cheeks, 
uttered,  in  a  tremulous  tone,  "  May  God  bless 
you!" 

Mr.  C ,  bidding  them  good  afternoon,  re 
traced  his  steps  to  the  Inn,  and  proceeded  on 
his  journey.  On  reaching  his  home,  he  found 
that  Charles  had  faithfully  performed  the  duties 
which  had  been  entrusted  to  his  care.  Charles 
had  been  gone  from  home  a  long  time,  and  wish 
ing  to  visit  his  mother,  said — 

'•  Mr.  C ,  if  it  "would  be  convenient,  I 


80  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

should  like  to  be  absent  a  week  or  ten  days." 

"  0  yes,  or  longer  if  you  wish." 

Mr.  C left  the  store,  and  on  entering 

the  room  where  Julia  and  her  mother  sat  sew 
ing,  he  said — 

"  So  Charles  is  about  to  leave  us." 

"  About  to  leave  us !  —  Charles  about  to  leave 
us !"  rejoined  Julia,  dropping  the  work  she  had 
in  her  hands. 

"  Yes,  child ;  and  what  is  there  wonderful  in 
that  ?" 

"  0  nothing,  father,  only  I  thought  we  should 
be  rather  lonesome — that's  all,"  while  her  heart 
swelled  at  the  thought  of  being  separated  from 
the  object  of  her  affection.  She  arose  and  left 
the  room. 

Mr.  C saw  her  emotion,  and  soon  follow 
ed  her  to  her  room,  and  thus  addressed  her — 

"Tell  me  my  child,  do  you  love  Charles  ?" 

"  I  never-kept  anything  hid  from  you,  neither 
will  I  now — I  do  love  him  sincerely ;  but  do 
not  tell  him  for  the  world,  for  he  has  never  told 
me  that  his  love  was  returned." 

"  Never  mind,  I  will  see  to  that,"  said  Mr. 


MOUNTAIN     «IRL.  81 

C ,  leaving  the  room.  Soon  after  he  re- 
entered  the  store,  and  found  Charles  alone. 

"  Charles,"  said  he,  "  could  you  not  defer 
your  journey  a  week  or  ten  days  ?" 

"0  yes,"  replied  Charles,  "or  longer  if  you 
wish." 

"  It  would  oblige  me  very  much — as  Julia  is 
about  to  be  married,  we  wish  you  to  attend  the 
wedding.'' 

"Married! — Julia  to  be  married!"  said 
Charles,  rising  from  his  seat,  and  walking  the 
floor  with  rapid  strides. 

"  Yes ;  and  what  is  there  surprising  in  that?" 
"  Nothing — 0  nothing,  Sir:  rather  sudden — 
that  is  all.     But  indeed,  Sir,  I  cannot  stay." 
"  Why,  you  just  said  that  you  would." 
"  Well,  indeed,  Sir,  I  cannot.     Command  me 
in  anything  else,  and  I  will  obey." 

"  Charles,"  said  Mr.  C ,  "  tell  me  frank 
ly,  do  you  love  my  daughter  ?" 

Charles  was  sensible  that  his  agitation  had 
betrayed  him,  and  said — 

"  Had  I  the  fortune  that  she  is  worthy  of,  I 


82  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

should  think  myself  the  happiest  being  on  earth 
could  I  obtain  her." 

"Say  nothing  about  riches,  Charles — you 
shall  have  her." 

"  Sir,  I  scorn  to  deceive  you :  I  am  poorer 
than  you  are  aware  :  I  have  a  mother" — 

"  I  know  it — I  know  it  all,"  interrupted  Mr. 

C .  "  I  have  enough  to  place  you  both 

beyond  want.  But,  as  your  business  is  so  ur 
gent,  we  shall  have  to  defer  the  wedding,  for 
you  cannot  stay." 

"  Beg  your  pardon,"  said  Charles,"  laughing, 
"  my  business  can  easily  be  deferred,  and  that 
with  pleasure." 

Mr.  C soon  returned  to  inform  Julia  of 

the  conversation  which  had  passed  between  him 
self  and  Charles.  At  length  the  evening  ap 
peared.  Charles  and  Julia,  for  the  first  time, 
confessed  their  love  to  each  other,  which  they 
had  so  long  cherished  ;  and  speedy  preparations 

were  then  made  for  their  marriage.  Mr.  C 

soon  ordered  a  carriage  to  be  sent  for  Mrs. 
Lewis  and  her  aged  father  to  attend  the  wed 
ding.  Mr.  C 's  mansion  was  furnished  with 


MOUNTAIN    UIRL.  .         83 

the  nicest  and  richest  of  everything,  and  that 
regardless  of  cost. 

At  length  the  day  for  their  nuptials  arrived — 
the  aristocratic  guests  were  assembled,  and  all 
seemed  to  rejoice  with  the  happy  couple.  After 
the  marriage  ceremony  was  performed,  they 
partook  of  the  luxuries  which  had  been  prepared 
for  the  occasion,  with  great  satisfaction.  The 
time  passed  pleasantly  on,  until  the  hour  arrived 
for  their  departure,  leaving  the  happy  group  to 
enjoy  the  blessings  which  God  had  bestowed 
upon  them.  Mrs.  Lewis  and  her  aged  father 
spent  the  remainder  of  their  days  in  the  enjoy 
ment  of  the  society  of  their  affectionate  children. 
Charles  and  Julia  proved  a  blessing  to  Mr.  and 

Mrs.  C ,and  were  instrumental,  in  tke  hands 

of  God,  of  leading  them  to  the  fold  of  Christ. 

Reader,  remember  that  the  Scripture  says, 
"  Seek  first  the  kingdom  of  heaven  and  its  right 
eousness,  and  all  things  shall  be  added  unto  you." 


84  THE   UNFORTUNATE 


EVA,  THE  LITTLE  CHRISTIAN, 


CHAPTER   I. 

IT  was  a  fine  morning  in  December,  and  peo 
ple  were  going  to  and  fro,  carrying  baskets  of 
evergreens,  to  dress  out  their  windows,  and  to 
adorn  their  chimney  pieces  for  the  approaching 
Christmas  day ;  others  were  buying  or  selling 
these  innocent  decorations,  and  either  walking 
abroad  for  recreation  and  amusement,  or  hurry 
ing  on  to  their  respective  mansions ;  while 
not  a  few,  of  common  place  character,  and  more 
ordinary  pursuits,  were  intent  on  their  respect 
ive  business,  or  hastening  homeward  to  plain 
fireside  enjoyments,  in  the  bosom  of  their  less 
elegant,  but  ofttimes  more  happy  families.  Each 
and  all  of  them  seemed  intent  on  some  object 
connected  with  the  present  hour.  Few  or  none 
appeared  to  be  ruminating  on  the  shortness  of 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  85 

time,  or  the  vanities  of  this  world !  Few  seemed 
to  have  eternity  before  them,  or  to  be  aware  of 
the  interesting  life  and  approaching  death  of 
little  Eva ;  they  entered  not  into  her  joys,  nor 
did  they  partake  of  her  sorrows.  The  -greater 
part  of  them  had  never  heard  her  name  pro 
nounced,  much  less  did  they  know  how  the  Lord 
was  conducting  her  through  this  vale  of  tribula 
tion  toward  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  But  this 
was  of  no  consequence.  He  who  clothes  the 
grass  of  the  field,  and  provides  for  the  fowls  of 
the  air,  had  given  this  child  food  and  raiment ; 
and  having  these,  she  was  therewith  content  and 
happy ;  her  young,  but  enlightened  mind  had 
been  enabled  to  discover  the  pearl  of  great 
price  ;  and  her  soul  had  grasped  it  as  her  own 
inestimable  treasure.  The  Lord  Jesus  had  given 
unto  her  his  peace,  and  the  world  could  not  in 
crease  or  take  it  away.  Hence  she  could  well 
forego  all  the  attentions  and  sympathies  of  the 
vain  and  busy  tribes  of  men;  of  that  world 
which  know  not  (rod.  nor  love  his  Son  Jesua 
Christ. 

After  awhile  we  readied  the  dwelling  of  little 


86  THE    UNFORTUNATE 

Eva.  On  entering  the  first  room  from  the  street, 
the  couch  of  the  sick  child  immediately  present 
ed  itself.  It  had  been  brought  into  that  apart 
ment,  and  placed  in  one  corner  not  far  from  the 
grate  that  she  might  enjoy  the  warmth  of  the 
fire,  and  the  constant  presence  and  assistance 
of  some  of  the  family.  So  far  all  was  well.  On 
entering  the  room  where  little  Eva  lay  for  some 
time,  I  felt  myself  unable  to  do  more  than  silent 
ly  to  gaze  on  the  emaciated,  but  still  sweet  look 
ing  child's  countenance/  I  could  not  request 
the  family  to  withdraw,  and  while  they  were 
present,  I,  for  a  while,  could  say  nothing.  Her 
father  at  length  broke  in  on  our  unprofitable  si 
lence,  by  saying, 

"  Well,  Eva,  I  have  brought  a  kind  lady  to 
talk  to  you  about  heaven,  and  about  your  soul 
and  about  Jesus  Christ.  She  loves  children 
who  love  their  Savior." 

She  turned  her  bright  black  eyes  upon  me, 
and  smiled,  and  moved  her  lips  ;  but  the  sounds 
fell  short,  they  were  too  faint  to  reach  my  ear. 

"  She  can  only  speak  in  a  whisper,"  said  her 
father.  "  You  must  go  nearer." 


MOUNTAIN    GIRB.  87 

I  did  so,  and  while  the  mother  was  reaching 
a  chair,  the  repeated  .smile  of  little  Eva's  coun 
tenance,  and  the  pleasing  look  she  first  cast  on 
her  father,  and  on  myself,  spoke  plain  enough 
to  this  effect :  "  Lady,  you  are  welcome  here  ; 
I  am  glad  of  one  more  opportunity  to  hear  of 
my  dear  Savior,  and  to  tell  to  others  that  I  love 
him."  Indeed,  there  was  not  one  symptom  of 
confusion  or  fear  about  her.  Her  whole  man 
ner  was  calculated  to  do  away  all  my  hesitations 
and  to  lead  me  on  at  once  to  a  familiar  conversa 
tion.  Nor  did  I  leave  her  without  having  cause 
to  say  to  myself,  "  It  is  good  for  me  that  I  have 
both  seen  and  conversed  with  thee,  thou  hap 
py  and  interesting  stranger !" 

In  the  course  of  my  conversation  with  this 
child,  I  learned  that  it  was  a  considerable  while 
ago  since  the  Lord  had  more  especially  con 
vinced  her  of  her  lost  and  fallen  condition,  as  a 
child  of  Adam.  She  had,  indeed,  been  a  con 
siderable*  time  in  a  well-conducted  Sunday 
School,  and  had  received  one  of  the  first  prizes, 
a  copy  of  an  elegant  edition  of  Bunyan's  Pil 
grim's  Progress,  as  a  reward  for  diligence  and 


88  THE    UNFORTUNATE 

good  behavior ;  but  she  did  not  note  any  par 
ticular  stage  of  her  Christian  experience  from 
what  she  read  or  heard  there,  nor  did  it  appear 
that  her  teachers  were  acquainted  with  what 
was  passing  within  her  bosom.  After  the  Lord 
had,  himself,  convinced  her  of  sin,  and  directed 
her  soul  to  Christ  Jesus  for  salvation,  she  be 
came  very  earnest  in  her  attendance  on  every 
public  means  of  grace,  and  was  much  edified 
under  the  preaching  of  the  Word.  Although 
so  young,  and  never  prompted  by  any  one  to 
attempt  such  a  thing,  she  had,  for  a  good  while, 
been  in  the  habit  of  writing  down  the  texts  and 
and  heads  of  most  of  the  sermons  she  heard 
preached.  But  such  was  ^her  humility  and  her 
fear  of  being  thought  too  highly  of  after  her 
decease,  that,  not  long  before  her  death,  she 
took  the  opportunity  of  her  mother's  absence, 
and  prevailed  on  her  sister  to  burn  all  these 
little  interesting  papers.  The  parent  came  in 
just  time  enough  to  see  them  consuming,  but 
not  in  time  to  rescue  any  part  of  them  from  the 
devouring  names. 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  give  the  particulars  of 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  89 

my  conversation  with  her.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
that  through  the  whole  she  expressed  her  con 
viction  that  she  should  soon  die — that  she  Avas 
a  great  sinner,  and  merited  no  good  thing  at  the 
hand  of  God :  but  that  she  believed  Jesus  Christ 
had  died  for  her,  and  that  she  loved  him,  and 
longed  to  depart  to  be  with  him.  I  thanked  the 
Lord  that  I  had  seen  her — that  I  had  been  per 
mitted  to  converse  and  to  pray  with  her — that 
I  had  witnessed  the  power  of  divine  grace  in 
her  soul.  I  was  about  to  leave ;  and  short  as 
our  acquaintance  had  been,  it  was  found  suf 
ficiently  long  to  call  forth  the  tear  of  affection 
ate  sorrow  at  that  moment  of  separation.  As  I 
turned  from  her  couch,  to  open  the  door,  I  said 
to  myself,  "  Farewell,  my  young  sister,  fare 
well,  until  we  meet  in  an  undying  world,  and 
hail  each  other  in  a  kingdom — 

"  Unstain'd  by  woe,  unchang'd  by  years 
Unlike  thia  gloomy  vale  of  tears." 

In  the  full  assurance  that  she  would  soon  be 
beyond  the  reach  of  every  pain  and  conflict,  I 
felt  all  that  is  expressed  in  the  following  hymn, 


90  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

and  I  wish  to  express  the  whole  as  referring  to 
little  Eva : 

Happy  soul,  thy  days  near  ended, 
All  thy  mourning  days  below ; 
Go,  by  angel  guards  attended, 
To  the  sight  of  Jesus  go ! 
Waiting  to  receive  thy  spirit, 
Lo !  the  Savior  stands  above, 
Shows  the  purchase  of  his  merit, 
Reaches  out  the  crown  of  love. 

Struggle  through  the  latest  passion 

To  thy  Redeemers  breast, 

To  his  uttermost  salvation, 

To  his  everlasting  rest ; 

For  the  joy  he  sets  before  thee 

Bear  a  momentary  pain, 

Die,  to  live  the  life  of  glory, 

Suffer,  with  thy  Lord  to  reign. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  FEW  days  after,  I  again  called  for  little 
Eva,  whom  I  found  in  the  embrace  of  death. 
The  family  had  gathered  around  the  couch  of 
the  dying  Christian,  to  receive  her  last  and  final 
adieu  until  they  should  meet  her  beyond  the 
shores  of  time,  to  part  no  more.  As  I  ap 
proached  her  couch,  she  extended  her  hand  and 
said,  with  a  smile,  "  My  good  lady.  I  am  about 


MOUNTAIN   filRL.  91 

to  leave  this  world :  my  spirit  must  soon  depart." 
I  then  asked  her  if  Christ  was  still  precious  to 
her  soul.  "  0  yes,"  she  replied,  "  I  long  to  be 
with  Him." 

She  then  requested  all  her  books  and  trinkets 
to  be  brought  down  stairs ;  these  she  divided 
and  gave  to  different  members  of  the  family,  as 
tokens  of  affectionate  love.  Her  Bible  she  now 
gave  to  her  mother,  with  particular  orders  that 
it  should  never  be  parted  with.  She  then  gave 
directions  about  her  funeral,  naming  the  young 
people  she  wished  to  carry  her  corpse,  and  those 
she  should  like  to  attend  the  ceremony  as  pall 
bearers.  All  this  was  done  with  as  much  com 
posure  as  any  person  would  have  made  arrange 
ments  for  a  journey,  or  any  common  event  of 
life.  For  many  months  past,  her  mind  had  been 
impressed  with  the  conviction  that  she  should 
not  long  continue  to  be  an  inhabitant  of  this 
lower  world ;  and  anxious,  if  possible,  when 
dead,  to  benefit  her  surviving  relatives,  and  to 
proclaim  to  the  world  her  love  to,  and  confidence 
in,  Christ.  She  wished  to  be  buried  in  such  a 
spot,  as  that  her  relatives  might,  every  time 


92  THE   UNFOKTUNATE 

they  went  to  and  from  church,  behold  her  rest 
ing  place,  and  be  reminded  of  their  approaching 
end.  From  the  same  pious  motive  of  benefit 
ing  survivors,  she  wished  that  a  monumental 
inscription,  expressive  of  her  faith,  and  of  the 
desires  and  feelings  of  her  mind,  might  be  placed 
over  her  mouldering  dust,  to  admonish  and  en 
courage  others  to  seek  the  Lord  for  themselves. 
"With  this  view  she  finally  chose  the  following 
lines  for  her  epitaph  : 

While  thou,  my  Jesus,  still  art  nigh. 
Cheerful  I  lire,  and  joyful  die ; 
Secure,  when  mortal  comforts  flee, 
To  find  ten  thousand  worlds  in  thee. 

This  done,  she  told  those  about  her,  that  her 
time  was  drawing  near — that  she  should  soon 
be  gone,  but  that  she  had  no  fear  of  dying.  She 
then  made  several  attempts  to  speak,  but  was 
unable.  After  watching  her  some  time,  I  then 
said,  "  My  dear  Eva,  if  you  are  happy — if  you 
you  are  satisfied  that  Jesus  loves  you,  lift  up 
your  hand."  No  sooner  was  this  request  made, 
than  she  raised  her  poor,  emaciated  arm  in  to 
ken  that  she  was  happy  in  the  assurance  of  the 
love  of  Christ.  From  that  moment  she  lay  in 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  93 

the  arms  of  her  gentle  and  good  Shepherd,  who 
carried  her,  in  sweet  composure,  through  those 
waters  which  have  alarmed  many  an  older  Chris 
tian  than  little  Eva ;  nor  did  he  leave  her  until 
her  happy  spirit  had  clean  escaped  the  prison  of 
the  body,  and  fled  to  the  assembly  of  angels, 
and  mingled  with  those  who  compose  the  church 
triumphant  above.  On  the  Sabbath  following, 
her  body  was  consigned  to  the  grave,  as  near 
as  possible  to  the  chancel  door  of  her  parish 
church,  the  spot  she  herself  had  previously  fixed 
upon,  as  being  the  most  likely  to  present  her 
grave  to  the  eyes  of  her  brothers  and  sisters  as 
they  approached  the  house  of  God.  The  young 
people  whom  she  had  chosen  for  that  purpose, 
carried  and  attended  her  corpse  to  its  long  home, 
agreeably  to  her  wish  ;  and  then  the  mourners 
returned  to  their  respective  homes. 

Thus  ended  the  brief  pilgrimage  of  little  Eva. 
In  the  short  period  of  thirteen  years,  she  had 
run  the  race  appointed  for  her  ;  and  at  its  con 
clusion  we  doubt  not  but  she  obtained  the  crown 
of  victory. 


94  THH   UNFORTUNATE 


EMMA,  THE  BELLE  OF  THE  VILLAGE. 


I  PEN  the  following  in  the  language  of  the 
physician  who  witnessed  the  scene: 

In  1832,  there  resided  in  the  village  of  P.,  a 
very  respectable  fanner  by  the  name  of  Hall, 
who  had  by  his  industry  and  economy  accumu 
lated  a  large  portion  of  this  world's  goods,  and 
in  addition  to  this  he  had  been  blessed  with  a 
family  of  enterprising  children,  consisting  of  four 
sons  and  one  beautiful  daughter,  on  whom  they 
doated  and  almost  idolized,  which  completed  the 
happy  group.  Years  glided  pleasantly  away, 
unatteded  by  the  ruthless  hand  of  affliction,  un 
til  Emma  had  bloomed  into  womanhood,  a  mild 
and  lovely  being.  She  was  considered  the  belle 
of  our  village  and  was  universally  beloved  for 
her  amiable  disposition. 


MOUNTAIN   GIRL.  95 

Emma  was  now  eighteen  years  of  age,  and 
was  beloved  by  Egbert  Cornwell,  the  son  of  a 
wealthy  merchant,  to  whom  her  vows  were 
plighted  when  but  a  child.  Mr.  Hall  was  much 
displeased  with  the  choice  of  her  affections,  and 
resolved  that  he  would  use  such  means  as  he 
thought  proper  to  prevent  their  union.  Mr. 
Hall,  as  he  returned  from  a  walk  one  afternoon, 
entered  the  parlor,  and  finding  Emma  alone,  he 
seated  himself  upon  the  sofa,  and  after  some 
conversation  concerning  Egbert,  he  rose  from 
his  seat  in  an  agitated  manner  and  addressed 
her  as  follows : 

"  Emma,  has  Egbert  been  here  this  after 
noon  ?" 

u  Yes,  father,  and  has  but  just  left,"  was  the 
firm  reply. 

*•  Well,  my  child,  let  this  be  the  last  hour 
that  you  ever  mingle  in  his  society." 

"  Why,  father,"  exclaimed  the  astounded 
girl,  dropping  the  work  which  she  held  in  her 
hand  ;  "  you  are  not  in  earnest  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  and  from  this  time  I  strictly 
forbid  your  corresponding  with  him  in  any  way 


96  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

or  admitting  him  into  your  company  at  any  time, 
or  under  any  circumstances  whatever." 

So  saying,  he  left  the  room. 

Emma  felt  that  this  was  more  than  her  poor 
heart  could  bear.  All  her  future  prospects  of 
happiness  were  in  a  moment  cut  off,  and  rising 
from  her  seat,  she  threw  herself  upon  the  sofa, 
giving  full  vent  to  her  feelings.  From  this  time 
she  secluded  herself  from  all  society  save  that 
of  her  mother,  in  whose  presence  she  ever  strove 
to  assume  her  usual  cheerfulness,  but  in  spite 
of  her  efforts,  the  quick  discerning  eye  of  her 
mother  saw  and  felt  that  the  wound  which  had 
been  inflicted  was  fast  hastening  her  child  to  an 
untimely  grave.  Emma  spent  many  a  long  and 
sleepless  night  alone  in  her  chamber,  in  deep 
meditation,  now  and  then  giving  vent  to  a  flood 
of  tears,  until  three  months  had  passed  heavily 
away.  One  night,  after  the  family  had  retired 
to  rest,  Mrs.  Hall  unbosomed  her  fears  to  her 
husband  concerning  the  rapid  change  which  time 
had  wrought  in  Emma  during  the  last  three 
months.  •  *«i* 

"  The  change  is  very  great  indeed."  mur- 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  07 

mured  he.  "  I  think  we  had  better  spend  a  few 
weeks  with  her  at  the  Springs.  The  journey 
may  prove  a  benefit  to  her  at  least.  You  can 
mention  the  subject  to  her,  and  make  such  ar 
rangements  as  you  think  proper  for  our  depart 
ure  on  Tuesday  next. 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Hall  informed  her 
daughter  of  their  intended  journey,  and  desired 
her  to  be  in  readiness  to  accompany  them  thith 
er,  and  Emma,  resting  her  eyes  upon  her  moth- 
said,  with  a  tremulous  voice  : 

" 1  have  no  desire  to  visit  the  Springs,  and  I 
would  rather  remain  at  home." 

u  Why,  my  child,"  said  her  mother,  "  I  think 
we  could  spend  a  few  weeks  at  the  Springs  very 
pleasantly.  Besides  it  is  for  your  special  benefit 
that  your  father  proposed  the  journey." 

"  0  mother!"  said  Emma,  while  a  tear  glis 
tened  in  her  eye,  "  there  are  no  Springs  that 
can  remove  the  disease  of  my  heart." 

"  0  say  not  so  my  child,"  interrupted  her 
mother.  "  Your  disease  will  not  prove  fatal,  I 
trust,  and  you  may  again  be  happy." 

Emma  could  not  conceal  her  emotion,  and 

5 


98  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

arose  to  leave  the  room,  but  was  prevented  by 
her  father,  who  at  that  moment  opened  the  door, 
and  placing  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder  he  said, 
in  an  affectionate  manner : 

"  What  is  the  cause  of  your  weeping,  my 
child  ?  Are  you  not  as  well  as  usual  ?" 

"  Yes,  father,"  said  Emma,  gazing  intently  in 
her  father's  face.  "  But  I  have  one  request  to 
make,  before  we  visit  the  Springs." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asked  her  father  anxiously. 

"That  I  may  converse  with  Egbert  but  for 
one  hour." 

"  No,  my  child,"  said  he,  "it  would  only  be 
inflicting  a  wound  still  deeper.  I  can  never 
consent." 

Emma  replied  not,  and  with  a  hurried  step 
left  the  room,  and  glided  noiselessly  to  her  cham 
ber  where  she  seated  herself  by  an  open  window, 
to  weep  over  her  hopeless  condition.  The  next 
morning  I  was  called  to  visit  the  daughter  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hall,  Avho  had  fallen  upon  the 
floor  in  a  sort  of  faulting  fit,  which  was  not  fol 
lowed  by  any  extraordinary  symptom,  at  the 
time.  Owiug  to  a  preternatural  excitability  of 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  99 

the  nervous  system,  and  perhaps  the  existence 
of  disease  which  had  not  yet  manifested  itself, 
she  had  a  very  restless  night.  The  want  of 
sleep  was  followed  by  delirium,  and  in  a  short 
time  very  unfavorable  symptoms  were  developed. 
As  is  not  unfrequent  when  the  system  is  labor 
ing  under  diseased  action,  even  before  it  is  dis 
coverable  by  the  ordinary  indications,  the  mind 
seems  to  participate  in  the  lurking  mischief  and 
is  conscious  of  what  is  about  to  take  place.  In 
this  instance  my  patient  requested  that  the  fami 
ly  should  be  summoned  to  her  bed-side,  and 
gave  me  to  iinderstand  that  she  thought  she 
would  not  recover,  before  I  was  aware  of  ap 
proaching  danger. 

At  the  time  I  really  had  not  been  able  to  de 
tect  anything  serious  in  the  case,  and  believing 
all  that  she  wanted  was  sleep,  I  advised  her  to 
postpone  calling  the  family  together  until  morn 
ing,  with  a~view  of  preventing  mental  agitation, 
so  that  she  might  be  benefited  by  the  medicines 
given  to  promote  rest.  So  strong,  however,  was 
the  conviction,  in  her  own  mind,  that  she  would 
not  recovor.  that  the  family  was  summoned  to 


100  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

her  bed-side,  where  she  addressed  them  in  an  af 
fectionate  manner,  in  the  presence  of  myself  and 
others.  Then,  taking  each  by  the  hand,  she 
imprinted  a  long  and  farewell  kiss  upon  their 
cheek,  warning  them  to  flee  from  the  wrath  to 
come,  to  seek  the  Savior  with  all  their  hearts, 
that  they  might  meet  her  in  peace.  Here  she 
paused,  interrupted  by  her  parents'  lamentations, 
which  were  painful  beyond  description.  Emma 
raised  her  eyes  to  her  parents  and  said : 

"  My  dear  parents,  you  must  not  murmur 
nor  complain.  It  is  the  will  of  God  that  I  should 
leave  this  world  of  affliction,  and  you  must  be 
reconciled.  I  have  nothing  to  hope  for,  and 
death  itself  is  a  pleasure  to  me." 

Those  words  were  like  daggers  to  Mr.  Hall, 
and  falling  upon  his  knees  he  earnestly  begged 
forgiveness  of  his  daughter  for  his  rashness, 
which  he  sensibly  felt  was  the  cause  from  whence 
her  disease  first  originated.  His  pardon  was 
freely  granted  by  Emma,  who  pointed  him  to 
the  Lamb  of  God  who  taketh  away  the  sins  of 
world,  and  earnestly  besought  him  to  seek  his 
grace  that  they  might  yet  be  an  unbroken  fami- 


MOUNTAIN11    GIRL.  101 

ly  in  the  world  to  come.  Then  putting  her 
hands  together,  she  said  : 

"  At  other  times,  the  certainty  of  dying  would 
fill  my  eyes  with  tears,  but  now  I  have  not  a 
tear  to  shed.  The  uncertainty  of  our  future 
condition  is  very  awful :  no  one  returns  from  the 
grave  to  tell  us  what  is  to  take  place  hereafter." 

An  expression  of  regret  for  misspent  time 
with  a  promise  of  improvement  in  the  future, 
closed  her  conversation  with  the  family.  A  sup 
plication  to  the  Almighty  occupied  the  remain 
der  of  a  lucid  interval. 

Recovering  from  temporary  exhaustion,  she 
proceeded  in  a  familiar  manner,  but  with  gveat 
earnestness : 

"  My  dear  brothers,  to  look  back  eighteen 
years,  seems  a  very  short  time  indeed,  but  eigh 
teen  years  to  come  seems  a  little  eternity !  But 
it  will  come  round,  and  you  and  all  my  acquaint 
ances  sooner  or  later  will  arrive  at  the  same 
condition  I  am  now  in.  And  whatever  may  be 
the  realities  of  the  future,  the  Christian  is  al- 
always  secure." 

Words  and  declarations  like  these  from  a  dy- 


102  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

ing  youth  of  eighteen  years  came  like  a  thunder 
bolt  to  the  heart.  It  was  like  the  voice  of  the 
spirit  of  God  upon  the  ear.  To  ine  it  was  a 
moment  of  profound  thoughtfulness  and  solem 
nity.  I  noted  down  the  substance  of  her  prayer 
which  followed  these  portentous  expressions. 

"  And  now,  0  God,  we  commend  ourselves 
to  thy  care,  relying  on  the  mercies  and  promi 
ses  of  Jesus  Christ,  to  deliver  us  from  that  state 
of  suffering  and  torment,  of  which  we  have 
heard,  and  that  flame  of  which  we  have  read ; 
and  to  thy  care  and  protection  we  commend  our 
spirit  through  the  merits  of  Jesus  Christ  our 
Savior.  Amen." 

She  then  bid  us  all  a  long  and  final  adieu, 
and  her  spirit  soared  to  the  regions  of  bliss. 

From  the  history  of  this  case,  we  are  admon 
ished  of  the  certainty  of  death  to  ah1  living,  in 
a  manner  calculated  to  arouse  the  feelings  of 
our  nature,. and  excite  in  us  an  inquiry  as  to  our 
own  condition.  We  are  warned  by  it  to  pre 
pare  for  the  final  issue  of  all  created  beings. 
Why  be  led  away  by  ambition,  by  the  love  of 
fame,  by  the  allurements  of  riches  ?  Will  wealth 


MOUNTAIN   GIRL.  103 

purchase  a  long  existence,  will  it  smooth  our 
passage  to  the  grave,  or  make  our  repose  sweet  ? 
These  are  considerations  which  become  of  vital 
importance  to  every  man,  and  if  I  have  by  this 
narrative  contributed  in  the  smallest  degree  to 
start  a  serious  thought,  or  agitate  a  pious  inqui 
ry,  my  object  will  be  attained. 


104  THE    UNFORTUNATE 


THE    BERRY   BOY, 


IN  the  Summer  of  1838,  Mr.  Benton,  on  his 
way  home  from  the  Springs,  where  he  had  spent 
several  weeks  with  his  daughter,  stopped  at  a 
hotel  hi  a  small  village  to  rest  awhile  in  the  heat 
of  the  day.  He  had  not  been  there  long,  when 
a  lad  about  ten  years  of  age  came  up  with  a 
basket  of  berries,  whose  countenance  bespoke 
poverty  and  distress.  Mr.  Benton  looked  at 
him  with  an  eye  of  compassion,  and  with  a  sort 
of  interest,  and  thinking  that  he  would  lighten 
his  load,  he  said  : 

"  What  will  you  take  for  your  berries,  my 
little  fellow  ?" 

"  Four  cents  a  quart,"  replied  the  boy,  while 
his  keen  black  eye  sparkled  with  joy  at  the 
thought  of  finding  a  purchaser. 

Mr.  Benton  had  great  curiosity  to  learn 
something  of  the  young  stranger's  history, 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  105 

and  said  inquiringly,  "  Do  you  go  to  school  ?" 

"  No  Sir,"  said  the  boy.  "  I  used  to  go  be 
fore  my  mother  died,  but  now  it  is  all  I  can  do 
to  support  my  poor  blind  grandfather." 

"  Have  you  no  father  ?" 

"  0  no,  he  died  some  years  before  my  moth 
er,"  said  the  boy,  while  the  tears  ran  down  his 
cheeks. 

u  What  do  you  do  for  a  livelihood  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Benton,  while  his  heart  moved  with  sympa 
thy  for  him. 

"  I  saw  wood,  pick  berries,  go  on  errands,  or 
anything  else  I  can  get  to  do." 

"  You  arc  a  fine  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Benton, 
••  hut  I  will  not  take  your  berries,  for  you  can 
sell  them  to  some  one  else,  and  here  is  five  dol 
lars  which  will  lighten  your  burden  a  little." 

The  boy  looked  at  him  with  amazement,  for 
he  had  never  before  in  his  possession  that  amount 
of  money,  and  he  hardly  knew  how  to  express 
his  gratitude,  but  after  thanking  him  over  and 
over  again,  he  went  bounding  away  like  a  dancing 
feather. 

Mr.  Benton  wutcho'l   the  movements  of  the 


106  THE   UNFORTUNATB 

lad  and  soon  saw  him  enter  a  small  cottage 
where  sat  his  grandfather,  leaning  upon  his  staff, 
and  after  carefully  depositing  his  treasure  in  the 
hands  of  the  old  veteran,  he  immediately  set  out 
with  his  berries.  Mr.  Benton  then  resolved  to 
befriend  the  poor  orphan,  and  assist  him  in  get 
ting  an  education.  In  a  few  days  after  he  reach 
ed  home  he  put  his  resolution  into  practice,  and 
immediately  prepared  a  subscription  paper  for 
the  benefit  of  the  poor  orphan  boy.  He  signed 
ten  dollars,  and  being  a  man  who  exerted  great 
influence  in  society,  in  a  few  days  he  had 
enough  signed  to  accomplish  his  design.  Mr. 
Benton  accordingly  enclosed  the  money  in  a 
letter  addressing  it  to  Simon  Powell,  for  this 
was  the  name  of  the  orphan.  I  will  not  pretend 
to  describe  the  joy  which  the  reception  of  that 
letter  occasioned  the  poverty  stricken  heart,  al 
though  his  affectionate  grandfather  had  but  a 
few  days  since  been  conveyed  to  the  silent  tomb. 
I  will  only  say  that  the  money  was  carefully 
managed  and  Simon  obtained  a  liberal  educa 
tion.  When  he  was  about  eighteen  years  of  age, 
he  let  himself  as  a  clerk  to  Mr.  Saxe,  a  whole- 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  107 

sale  merchant.  By  his  industry,  honesty  and 
uprightness,  he  gained  the  esteem  of  both  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Saxe,  and  having  no  children  of  their 
own,  he  soon  became  their  adopted  son,  and  was 
now  known  by  the  name  of  Simon  P.  Saxe. 
Three  years  passed  pleasantly  away,  but  ere  the 
fourth  autumn  appeared,  Mr.  Saxe  was  num 
bered  with  the  silent  dead.  His  death  was  la 
mented  by  all,  especially  by  the  poorer  class, 
for  he  was  a  very  charitable  man,  and  no  beg 
gar  ever  left  his  dwelling  without  finding  some 
relief.  All  business  was  now  left  in  the  hands 
of  Simon  P.  Saxe,  who  managed  it  with  such 
care  and  prudence,  as  to  add  a  handsome  sum 
yearly  to  his  now  large  estate. 

One  evening  in  September,  as  Simon  was 
reading  the  advertisements  which  are  always 
more  or  less  in  a  paper,  his  eyes  rested  upon  the 
well  known  name  of  Mr.  Benton,  stating  that 
his  whole  establishment  was  to  be  sold  at  auc 
tion  for  debt  on  the  seventh  of  October.  Simon 
now  felt  that  it  was  in  his  power  to  befriend  him, 
and  resolved  that  he  would.  At  length  the  day 
appeared,  and  men  of  different  classes  were  up- 


108  THE    UNFORTUNATE 

on  the  ground  viewing  the  premises  with  great 
interest.  Among  the  rest  was  Simon  P.  Saxe. 
At  one  o'clock  the  sale  commenced,  and  to  the 
surprise  of  all,  the  whole  establishment  was 
struck  off  to  Simon  P.  Saxe.  He  then  entered 
the  house  with  Mr.  Benton  to  survey  his  property. 

Mr.  Benton  invited  him  into  the  parlor,  and 
introducing  him  to  Mrs.  and  Miss  Amelia  Ben- 
ton,  said : 

"  This  is  the  gentleman  who  now  owns  this 
establishment." 

At  this,  Amelia  burst  into  tears,  for  she  could 
not  conceal  her  emotion. 

Simon  was  much  affected  by  her  grief,  for  he 
too  had  tasted  the  cup  of  bitter  sorrow,  and 
turning  to  Mr.  Benton,  he  said : 

"  Sir,  do  you  remember  the  poor  orphan  boy 
whom  you  befriended  some  fourteen  years  ago" 

Mr.  Benton  hesitated  a  few  moments,  and 
then  said,  "  yes,  but  I  should  never  have  thought 
of  it  again." 

"  Well,  I  am  that  person ;  it  was  by  your  as 
sistance  that  I  obtained  an  education.  I  then 
r,. solved,  l»y  the  grace  of  God,  that  I  would  re- 


MOUNTAIN     GIRL.  109 

pay  you  for  that  act  of  kindness,  and  as  Provi 
dence  would  have  it,  I  am  now  enabled  to  be 
friend  you.  I  well  knew  your  misfortunes.  You 
will  not  be  under  the  necessity  of  moving  a  sin 
gle  article,  for  I  have  purchased  this  stand  for 
the  purpose  of  giving  you  ample  time  to  re 
deem  it." 

Mr.  Benton  and  family  were  overcome  with 
joy,  and  could  not  express  their  gratitude,  and 
all  wept  convulsively.  Simon  could  but  weep 
with  the  overjoyed  family. 

As  soon  as  he  could  collect  himself,  he  sat 
down  and  related  his  history  from  the  time  that 
Mr.  Benton  met  him  as  a  berry  boy  at  the  hotel, 
until  the  present.  After  much  pcrsuation,  he 
spent  the  night  with  them  very  pleasantly.  From 
that  time  he  paid  his  addresses  to  Miss  Amelia 
Hentou,  wlib  in  less  than  a  year  was  made  the 
happy  bride  of  Simon  P.  Saxe.  He  then  re 
moved  her  to  his  place  of  residence,  where  they 
passed  many  years  in  happiness  with-the  bereft 
widow . 


110  THF   UNFORTUNATE 


THE  LOVER'S  SOLILOQUY, 


HER  form  was  like  the  aspen  leaf 
That  flutters  in  the  wind, 
Her  presence  turned  away  the  grief 
That  preyed  upon  my  mind. 

Children  of  happiness  were  we, 
Joy  from  our  eyes  did  gleam, 
But  happiness  is  not  for  me, 
Alas !  'twas  but  a  dream. 

Her  hair  in  silken  ringlets  twined 
Around  a  brow  of  pearl ; 
Her  manners  gentle  and  refined — 
A  pleasant  happy  girl. 

We  played,  we  roamed  together— 
So  happy  did  we  seem ; 
Oh  !  shall  it  be  forever? 
Ah,  no !  'tis  but  a  dream. 

Fair  Luna's  rays  were  peeping 
Through  my  window  shutter, 
Ah  !  I  have  been  a  sleeping, 
My  heart  is  in  a  flutter. 

The  dream  of  life  is  fleeting, 
And  all  will  soon  be  o'er ; 
But  while  our  hearts  are  beating, 
We  ask  for  nothing  more. 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  Ill 


THE  BROKEN-HEARTED  GIRL, 


THE  sun  had  shed  its  last  rays  over  the  earth, 
when  Edward  pressed  his  lips  to  the  forehead 
of  the  beautiful  and  gentle-hearted  girl  for  the 
last  time. 

"  My  dear  Emily,  you  will  think  of  me  when 
far  away,"  said  he,  holding  her  trembling  hand 
in  his,  "  but  then  three  years,  will  soon  pass  : 
and  then  dear  Emily  we  will  meet  beneath  this 
shade  where  we  have  spent  many  happy  hours 
in  our  childhood,  and  again  renew  our  vows  for 
life." 

"  Yes,  Edward,"  said  Emily,  "  but  something 
whispers  in  my  ear,  that  your  vows  will  soon  be- 
forgotten,  and  another  save  me  shall  be  called 
your  bride." 


112  THE    UNFORTUNATE 

"  O,  fie !  Emily,  away  with  such  maiden  fears. 
Ere  I  prove  untrue  lo  you,  the  sun  shall  cease 
to  rise  and  set.  But  the  boat  is  in  dew  and  I 
must  away." 

He  again  pressed  her  to  his  bosom,  they  ex 
changed  a  kiss,  and  parted  as  all  lovers  part. 
Emily  stood  in  breathless  silence  as  she  watch 
ed  her  lover  until  his  form  was  lost  in  the  dis 
tance.  She  returned  home  and  sought  her 
chamber,  where  she  spent  the  night  in  bitter 
tears  giving  way  to  fear  and  doubt. 

A  year  had  passed,  and  Emily  had  received 
three  letters — the  first  a  long  and  affectionate 
one  sealed  with  a  kiss ; .  the  second  a  cold  and 
ceremonial  one ;  and  the  third  blighted  poor 
Emily's  hopes  forever.  Her  fears  were  now 
realized.  His  vows  were  forgotten  and  again 
plighted  to  another.  Poor  Emily's  heart  was 
chilled  by  the  piercing  blast ;  the  rose  gradual 
ly  faded  from  her  cheek :  and  ere  the  chilling 
winds  of  autumn  had  unrobed  the  trees  of  their 
green  foliage,  she  had  fallen  a  prey  to  disease. 
Slowly  and  painfully  the  knowledge  of  her 
lover's  infidelity  came  over  the  sensitive  heart. 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  113 

She  sought  for  a  time  to  shut  out  the  horrible 
suspicion  from  her  mind,  she  half  doubted  the 
evidence  of  her  own  senses  ;  she  could  not  be 
lieve  that  he  was  a  traitor,  for  her  memory  had 
treasured  every  token  of  his  affection,  every  im 
passioned  word,  and  every  endearing  smile  of 
his  tenderness.  But  the  truth  came  at  last ; 
the  doubtful  spectre  which  had  long  haunted  her, 
and  from  which  she  had  turned  away,  as  if  it- 
were  sin  to  look  upon  it,  now  stood  before  her, 
a  dreadful  and  unspeakable  reality.  There  was 
one  burst  of  passionate  tears,  the  overflow  of  that 
fountain  of-  affliction  which  quenches  the  last 
ray  of  hope. 

As  I  approached  the  quiet  and  secluded  dwel 
ling  of  the  once  happy  Emily,  I  found  the  door 
of  the  little  parlor  thrown  open,  and  a  female 
voice,  of  a  sweetness  that  could  hardly  be  said 
to  belong  to  earth,  stole  out  upon  the  soft  sum 
mer  air.  It  was  like  the  breathings  of  an  Mo\i- 
an  lute  to  the  gentlest  visitation  of  the  zephyr. 
Involuntarily  I  paused  to  listen,  and  these  words 
- — I  shall  never  forget  them  —  came  upon  my 


114  THE    UNFORTUNATE 

ear  like  the  low  and  melancholy  music  which 
Tve  sometimes  hear  in  dreams : 

Oh  —  no  —  I  do  not  fear  to  die. 
For  Hope  and  Truth  are  bold. 
And  Life  is  but  a  weariness. 
And  Earth  ia  strangely  cold  — 
In  view  of  Death's  pale  solitude, 
My  Spirit  hath  not  mourned  — 
'  Tis  kinder  than  forgotten  LOTS. 
Or  Friendship  unreturned !  &c. 

It  was  the  voice  of  Emily — it  was  her  last  song. 
She  was  leaning  on  the  sofa  as  I  entered  the 
apartment — her  thin  white  hand  rested  on  her 
forehead.  She  rose  and  welcomed  me  with  a 
melancholy  smile.  It  played  over  her  features 
for  a  moment,  flushing  her  cheek  with  a  slight 
and  sudden  glow,  and  then  passed  away,  leav 
ing  in  its  stead  the  wanness  and  mournful  beau 
ty  of  the  dying. 

It  has  been  said  that  death  is  always  terrible 
to  look  upon.  But  to  the  stricken  Emily,  the 
presence  of  the  destroyer  was  like  the  ministra 
tion  of  an  angel  of  light  and  holiness.  She  was 
passing  off  to  the  land  of  spirits  like  the  melting 
of  a  sunset  cloud  into  the  blue  of  Heaven — 
stealing  from  existence  like  the  strain  of  ocean 


MOUNTAIN   OIRL.  115 

music,  when  it  dies  away  slowly  and  sweetly 
upon  the  moonlight  waters. 

A  few  days  after  I  stood  by  the  grave  of 
Emily.  The  villagers  had  gathered  together, 
one  and  all,  to  pay  the  tribute  of  respect  and 
affection  to  the  lovely  sleeper.  They  mourned 
her  loss  with  a  sincere  and  deep  emotion — they 
marvelled  that  one  so  beloved  should  yield  her 
self  up  to  melancholy,  and  perish  in  the  spring 
time  of  her  existence.  But  they  knew  not  the 
hidden  arrow  that  rankled  in  her  bosom — the 
slow  and  secret  withering  of  her  heart.  She 
had  borne  the  calamity  with  silence — in  the 
uncomplaining  quietude  of  one,  who  felt  that 
there  are  woes  which  may  not  ask  for  sympathy 
—  afflictions  which,  like  the  canker  concealed 
in  the  heart  of  some  fair  blossoms,  are  discover 
ed  only  by  the  untimely  decay  of  their  victim. 

I  have  been  this  evening  to  the  grave  .of  Em 
ily.  And  when  I  kneel  above  the  narrow  man 
sion  of  one  whom  I  have  known  and  loved  in 
life,  I  feel  a  strange  assurance  that  the  spirit  of 
the  sleeper  is  near  me,  a  viewless  and  minister 
ing  angel.  It  is  a  beautiful  philosophy  which 


116  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

has  found  its  way,  unsought  for  and  misterious- 
ly,  into  the  silence  of  my  heart ;  and  if  it  be 
only  a  dream;  the  unreal  imagery  of  fancy,  I 
pray  God  that  I  may  never  wake  from  the  beau 
tiful  delusion. 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  117 


THE  EARLY  GRAVES. 


MR.  ASHLAND,  who  resided  in  the  town  of 
P ,  was  by  no  means  wealthy,  but  was  con 
sidered  a  comfortable  liver.  He  had  a  daughter, 
an  only  child,  who  was  a  great  favorite  with  her 
associates,  and  was  considered  by  all  the  belle 

of  the  village  of  P .  No  ride,  visit  or  dance 

could  pass  pleasantly,  unless  the  gentle-hearted 
Elta  Ashland  formed  one  of  the  guests.  She 
had,  by  her  mild  and  amiable  disposition,  won 
the  heart  of  Jarnes  Wilson,  a  school-mate  of  hers 
who  had  ever  cherished  the  wannest  affection 
for  her. 

Mr.  Wilson  was  a  proud,  aristocratic  man, 
and  was  by  no  means  pleased  with  the  growing 
affection  in  the  hearts  of  the  young  people. 

One  beautiful  morning  in  the  month  of  Au- 


118  THE  UNFORTUNATE 

gust,  Mr.  Wilson  resolved  that  he  would  seek 
an  interview  with  James,  and  ascertain,  if  pos 
sible,  how  matters  stood  between  him  and  Ella 
Ashland. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  he  according 
ly  turned  to  James  and  said,  "  My  son,  I  would 
like  to  talk  with  you  awhile." 

Leading  the  way  to  his  room,  James  reluc 
tantly  followed,  well  knowing  from  what  cause 
this  interview  proceeded.  On  reaching  his  room, 
they  seated  themselves  upon  a  sofa  beside  the 
window,  while  the  cool,  fresh  breeze  gently 
played  through  the  rustling  vines  which  twined 
about  the  window. 

•j 

"  James,"  said  Mr.  Wilson,  "  I  have  taken 
this  opportunity  to  converse  with  you  upon  the 
subject  of  matrimony,  and  learn  if  possible  what 
peculiarities  there  are  about  Miss  Ashland  that 
you  should  pay  your  addresses  entirely  to  her." 

"  Well,  father,  since  you  have  expressed  a 
desire  to  know,  I  will  tell  you.  Ella  is  very 
industrious,  possessing  a  generous  heart,  a  noble 
mind  and  a  lovely  disposition,  which  has  won 
mv  affections." 


MOUNTAIN    (ilRL.  119 

"Won  your  affections!"  interrupted  his  fa 
ther,  "  then  you  really  intend  to  marry  a  farm 
er's  daughter,  do  you  ?" 

"  I  do,"  said  James  emphatically. 

"  Well,  James,  as  you  regard  the  wishes  of 
your  parents,  I  wish  you  would  forsake  the  so 
ciety  of  Ella  Ashland,  and  pay  your  addresses 
to  Miss  Imogene  Cornwall,  who  belongs  to  an 
aristocratic  family.  Besides,  she  will  have  a 
fortune  with  her." 

"  Well,  father,  I  do  not  think  that  happiness 
consists  in  aristocracy  ;  for  my  part  I  had.  rather 
have  a  fortune  in  a  heart  than  with  one." 

"  Well,  James,"  said  Mr.  AYilspn,  rising  from 
his  seat,  while  his  cheeks  flushed  with  anger, 
"  if  you  persist  in  marrying  Ella  Ashland,  you 
must  not  expect  to  find  a  home  with  me,  I  will 
entirely  disown  you." 

James  seemed  somewhat  puzzled  at  this  de 
nunciation,  not  knowing  how  Mr.  Ashland  might 
feel  upon  the  subject,  but  resolved  that  he  would 
know  the  worst,  and  immediately  set  out  for  his 
dwelling.  On  reaching  his  house  he  found 
Mr.  Ashland  in  the  garden,  who  met  him  as  he 


120  ^THE    UNFORTUNATE 

approached,  with  a  cheerful  smile,  and  invited 
him  to  take  a  seat  in  the  arbor.  James  accord 
ingly  sat  down,  and  mustering  all  his  courage, 
commenced  the  subject,  telling  him  of  the  con 
versation  which  had  passed  between  him  and  his 
father,  respecting  his  marriage.  Mr.  Ashland 
remained  silent  a  few  moments,  then  rising  from 
his  seat,  he  said : 

"  Well,  James,  if  this  is  your  choice,  you  may 
have  a  home  here,  although  I  am  not  wealthy 
like  your  father,  but  I  have  enough  to  make  us 
all  comfortable." 

This  was  more  than  James  had  anticipated, 
and  after  expressing  his  gratitude  to  Mr.  Ash 
land  for  his  kindness,  they  both  entered  the 
house. 

The  day  for  their  nuptials  was  appointed,  and 
every  preparation  was  made  for  the  occasion 
which  would  add  to  the  happiness  of  the  fair 
couple.  Time  swiftly  glided  and  the  appointed 
day  arrived,  and  found  the  intended  bride  on 
her  death-bed. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning  in  September. 
About  nine  o'clock  she  revived,  and  calling  her 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  121 

friends  around  her  bed,  she  addressed  them  as 
follows  : 

"  My  dear  friends,  I  am  about  to  leave  you, 
and  that  in  a  short  time.  I  have  only  to  regret 
that  I  have  not  set  a  better  example  before  my 
friends  and  associates,  but  I  wish  to  be  forgiven 
by  them  all,  even  as  God  has  for  Christ's  sake 
forgiven  me.  And  now  let  me  entreat  you  to 
prepare  to  meet  your  God  in  peace.  Life  is 
uncertain  ;  but  one  week  ago  I  was  hi  the  bloom 
of  health,  and  now  my  soul  will  be  in  the  spirit 
land  ere  the  sun  shall  set." 

Then  taking  her  lover  by  the  hand,  she  placed 
in  it  a  lock  which  had  been  severed  from  her 
glossy  hair,  with  a  Bible,  and  said, 

"  0  James,  may  this  be  a  star  of  light  which 
will  guide  you  to  the  fold  of  Christ." 

She  then  bid  them  all  farewell,  until  they 
should  meet  at  the  judgment  seat  of  Christ,  and 
in  a  few  moments  her  spirit  was  wafted  on  angels' 
wings  to  the  realms  of  eternal  bliss. 

Poor  James  was  not  prepared  for  this  heavy 
and  unexpected  blow,  he  had  hoped  for  pleasure ; 
but  alas  her.  mon  were  his  hopes  blighted. 

6 


122  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

In  one  short  day — ah  I  who  can  tell  ?  James 
now  felt  that  he  had  no  friend  to  whom  he  could 
unbosom  his  sorrow,  but  unto  Him  who  heareth 
in  secret,  and  from  that  hour  he  sought  an  in 
terest  in  Christ. 

In  a  few  days  after  her  death,  he  resolved 
that  he  would  fit  himself  for  a  missionary,  and 
in  a  short  time  he  left  for  college.  But  it  seems 
that  this  was  not  the  office  which  he  was  design 
ed  to  fill,  for  he  had  scarcely  been  there  one 
month  when  he  was,  taken  with  a  disease  of  the 
heart,  which  carried  him  down  to  the  grave. — 
He  was  then  removed  to  his  home,  where  he 
lived  but  two  weeks  after  his  return. 

During  his  illness  he  talked  much  about  Ella 
Ashland,  and  often  requested  them  to  read  to 
him  in  the  Bible  she  gave  him. 

One  pleasant  evening  in  November,  the  fain- 
ilv  of  Mr.  Wilson  was  alarmed  by  the  crv — 

*  9?  V 

"  James  is  dying."     They  thronged  around  lib* 

bed  and  wept.     James  seemed  unconscious  of 

what  was  passing '  for  some  time,  then  opening 

jfiassy  '-yes,  and  looking  around^him.  he  said, 


MOUNTAIN     GIRL.  123 

"  Do  not  weep  for  me,  but  prepare  to  meet 
me  in  Heaven." 

He  then  gave  his  favorite  Bible  to  his  sister, 
saying, 

"  Put  .your  trust  in  Gody  and  be  guided  by 
the  precepts  which  are  contained  in  this  precious 
book/' 

He  then  imprinted  a  kiss  upon  each  cheek, 
and  still  holding  his  father  by  the  hand,  he  said, 

"  Father,  I  have  one  request  to  ask  of  you, 
that  I  may  be  laid  by  the  side  of  Ella  Ashland, 
and  that  my  monument  may  be  precisely  like 
hers.  Also,  I  wish  you  to  place  at  the  head  of 
our  graves,  a  weeping  willow.  Then  turning  to 
bis  afflicted  mother,  he  said,  with  a  smile, 

"  O  mother,  I  am  going  home,"  and  closed 
his  eyes  in  death. 

Mr.  Wilson  felt  that  this  was  the  most  trying 
scene  he  had  ever  been  called  to  pass  through. 

The  funeral  sermon  of  James  Wilson  and 
Ella  Ashland,  were  both  preached  by  G.  G. 
White.  There  was  not  one  dry  eye  among  the 
whole  congregation,  which  consisted  of  over  four 
.iuni  • 


124  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

As  we  have  said  before,  they  were  both  great 
favorites  among  their  associates,  and  every  heart 
was  bereft  at  their  loss,  and  could  sympathise 
with  the  afflicted  families. 

James  was  laid,  according  to  his  request,  by 
the  side  of  bis  intended,  and  the  monuments  of 
the  two  lovers  are  placed  upon  the  graves,  with  a 
weeping  willow  at  the  head. 

Now  they  are  united 
On  Canaan's  bright  shore, 
Rejoicing  with  Saints 
Who  haTe  passed  on  before. 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  125 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  STRANGERS, 


ABOUT  fifty  years  ago,  a  post  chaise  was  a  sight 
more  novel  in  the  little  hamlet  of  Dresden,  than 
silk  gowns  in  country  churches  during  the  maid 
enhood  of  our  great-grandmothers  ;  and  as  one 
drew  up  at  the  only  public  house  in  the  village, 
the  inhabitants,  old  and  young,  startled  by  the 
unusual  and  merry  sound  of  its  wheels,  hurried 
to  the  street.  The  landlady,  on  the  first  notice 
of  its  approach,  had  hastily  bestowed  upon  her 
goodly  person  the  additional  recommendation  of 
a  clean  cap  and  apron  ;  and,  still  tying  the  apron 
strings,  ran  bustling  to  the  door,  smiling,  color 
ing  and  courtesying  and  coloring  again,  to  the 
yet  unopened  chaise.  Poor  soul !  she  knew  not 
well  how  to  behave — it  was  an  epoch  in  her 
annals  of  inn-keeping. 

At  length,  the  coachman,  opening  the  dbor, 
handed  out  a  lady  in  widow's  weeds ;  a  beautiful 


126  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

golden-haired  child,  apparently  not  exceeding 
three  years  of  age,  was  assisted  to  the  ground  and 
grasped  her  extended  hand.  "  What  an  image 
o'  beauty  !"  exclaimed  some  half  dozen  of  by 
standers,  as  the  fair  child  lifted  her  lovely  face 
of  smiles  to  the  eyes  of  her  mother.  The  lady 
stepped  feebly  towards  the  inn,  and  though  the 
landlady's  heart  continued  to  practice  a  sort  of 
fluttering  motion,  which  communicated  a  portion 
of  its  agitation  to  her  hands,  she  waited  upon  her 
unexpected  and  unusual  guests  with  a  kindliness 
and  humility  that  fully  recompensed  for  the  ex- 
pertness  of  a  practical  waiter. 

About  half  an  hour  after  the  arrival  of  her  vis 
itors,  she  was  seen  bustling  from  the  door,  her 
face,  as  the  vilagers  said,  bursting  with  impor 
tance.  They  were  still  standing  in  groups  about 
their  doors,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  little  street, 
discussing  the  mysterious  arrival ;  and  as  she 
hastened  on  her  mission,  she  was  assailed  with  a 
dozen  such  questions  as  these — "  Who  is  that  air 
body  ?"  "  Who  brought  her  here  ?"  "  What's 
she  arter  ?"  But  to  those  and  sundry  other  in 
terrogatories,  the  important  hostess  gave  for  an- 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  127 

swer :  "  I  have  no  time  to  tell  you."  SJie  stop 
ped  at  a  small,  but  certainly  genteel  house  in 
the  village,  occupied  by  a  Mrs.  Dustan,  who 
was  a  very  nice  respectable  lady,  and  the  widow 
of  a  Methodist  minister.  In  the  summer  sea 
son,  Mrs.  Dustan  let  out  her  little  parlor  to 
lodgers,  who  visited  the  village  to  seek  health, 
or  a  few  weeks'  retirement.  She  was  compell- 
to  do  this  from  the  narrowness  of  her  circum 
stances. 

In  a  few  minutes.  Mrs.  Dustan,  in  a  clean 
cap,  a  muslin  handkerchief  round  her  neck,  a 
.quilted  black  bombazine,  gown,  and  snow  white 
apron,  followed  the  landlady  to  the  inn.  In  a 
short  time  she  returned,  the  stranger  lady  lean 
ing  upon  her  arm,  and  the  lovely  child  leaping 
like  a  young  lamb  before  them. 

Days  and  weeks  passed  away,  and  the  good 
people  of  Dresden,  notwithstanding  all  their 
surmises  and  inquiries,  -vvere  no  wiser  regard 
ing  their  new  visitor  :  ah  they  could  learn  "was, 
that  she  wos  the  widow  of  a  young  general, 
who  was  one  of  the  first  that  fell  when  Britain 
interfered  •with  the  French  Revolution  ;  and 


128  THE   UNFORTUNATE' 

the  mother  and  her  child  became  known  in 
the  village  by  the  designation  of  "  Mrs.  Dus- 
tan's  two  pictures  " — an  appellation  bestowed 
on  them  in  reference  to  their  beauty. 

The  beautiful  destroyer,  however  lay  in  the 
mother's  heart,  noAv  paling  her  cheeks  like  the 
early  lilly,  and  again  scattering  over  them  the 
rose  and  the  rainbow.  Still  dreaming  of  re- 
recovery,  about  six  months  after  Her  arrival  in 
Dresden,  death  stole  over  her  like  a  sweet 
sleep.  It  was  only  a  few  moments  before  the 
angel  hurled  the  fatal  shaft,  that  the  truth  fell 
upon  her  soul.  She  was  stretching  forth  her 
hand  to  her  work-basket,  her  lovely  child  was 
prattling  by  her  knee,  and  Mrs.  Dustau  smiling 
like  a  parent  upon  both,  striving  to  conceal  a 
tear  while  she  smiled,  when  the  breathing  of 
her  fair  guest  became  difficult,  and  the  rose 
which  a  moment  before  bloomed  upon  her 
countenance,  vanished  in  a  fitful  streak.  She 
flung  her  feeble  arms  around  the  neck  of  her 
child,  who  now  wept  upon  her  bosom,  and  ex 
claimed,  "  Oh  !  my  Parthena,  who  will  protect 
you  now — my  poor,  poor  orphan  ?" 


MOUNTAIN   GIRL.  129 

Mrs.  Dugtan  sprang  to  her  assistance.  She 
said  she  had  much  to  tell,  and  endeavored  to 
speak ;  but  a  gurgling  sound  only  was  heard  in 
her  throat ;  she  panted  for  breath ;  the  rosy 
streaks,  deepening  into  blue,  came  and  went  up 
on  her  cheeks,  like  the  midnight  dances  of  the 
northern  lights ;  her  eyes  flashed  with  a  momen 
tary  brightness  more  than  mortal,  and  the  spirit 
fled.  The  fair  orphan  still  clung  to  the  neck, 
and  kissed  the  yet  warm  lips  of  her  dead  mother. 

As  yet  she  was  too  young  to  see  all  the  drear 
iness  of  the  desolation  around  her  ;  but  she  was 
indeed  an  orphan  in  the  most  cruel  meaning  of 
the  word.  Her  mother  had  preserved  a  myste 
ry  over  her  sorrows  and  the  circumstances  of  her 
life,  which  Mrs.  Dustan  had  never  endeavored 
to  penetrate.  And  now  she  was  left  to  be  as  a 
mother  to  the  helpless  child,  for  she  knew  not  if 
she  had  another  friend  ;  and  all  she  had  heard  of 
the  mother's  history  was  recorded  on  the  hum 
ble  stone  which  she  placed  over  her  grave  — 
"  Here  resteththe  lifeless  form  of  Angeline  Ba 
ker,  widow  of  General  Baker :  she  died  amongst 
us  a  stranger,  but  beloved." 


130  THE    UNFORTUNATE 

The  whole  property  to  which  the  fair  orphan 
became  heir  by  the  death  of  her  mother  did  not 
amount  to  fifty  pounds,  and  amongst  the  proper 
ty  no  document  was  found  which  could  throw  any 
light  upon  who  were  her  relatives,  or  if  she  had 
any.  But  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Dustan  had  already 
adopter  her  as  a  daughter  ;  and  circumscribed 
as  her  circumstances  were,  she  trusted  that  He 
who  provided  food  for  the  very  birds  of  heaven 
would  provide  the  orphan's  morsel. 

Years  rolled  on,  and  Parthena  Baker  grew  in 
stature  and  in  beauty,  the  pride  of  her  protector, 
and  the  joy  of  her  age.  But  the  infirmities  of 
years  grew  upon  her  foster  mother,  and  disabling 
her  from  following  her  habits  of  industry,  stern 
want  entered  her  happy  cottage.  Still  Parthena 
appeared  only  as  a  thing  of  joy,  contentment  and 
gatitude ;  and  often  did  her  evening  song  be 
guile  her  aged  friend's  sigh  into  a  smile.  And 
to  better  their  hard  lot,  she  hired  herself  to 
watch  a  few  sheep  upon  the  neighboring  hills,  to 
the  steward  of  a  gentleman  named  Comstock, 
who,  about  the  time  of  her  mother's  death,  had 
purchased  the  estate  of  Dresden.  He  was  but 


,  NTAIN    GIRL.  131 

little  beloved,  for  he  was  a  hard  master  and  a 
bad  husband  ;  and  more  than  once  he  had  been 
seen  at  the  hour ,  of  midnight,  in  the  silent 
chuch.y  ard,  standing  over  the  grave  of  ^Irs. 
Baker.  This  gave  rise  to  not  a  few  whisper 
ings  respecting  the  birth  of  poor  Parthena.- — 
He  had  no  children,  and  a  nephew  who  resided 
in  his  house  was  understood  to  be  his  heir. 

Arnold  Comstock  was  about  two  years  older 
than  our  fair  orphan,  and  ever  as  he  could  es 
cape  the  eye  of  his  uncle  he  would  fly  to  the 
village,  and  seek  out  Parthena  as  a  playmate. 
And  now,  while  she  tended  the  few  sheep,  he 
would  steal  round  the  hills,  and  placing  himself 
by  her  side,  teach  her  the  lesson  he  had  that 
day  been  taught,  while  his  arm  in  innocence 
rested  on  her  neck,  their  glowing  cheeks  touch 
each  other,  and  her  golden  curls  played  around 
them.  Often  were  their  peaceful  lessons  bro 
ken  by  the  harsh  voice  and  blows  of  his  uncle. 
But  still  Arnold  stole  to  the  presence  of  his  play 
mate  and  pupil,  until  he  had  completed  his  six 
teenth  year ;  when  he  was  to  leave  Dresden 
preparatory  to  entering  the  army.  He  was  per- 


132  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

mitted  to  take  a  hasty  farewell  of  the  villagers, 
for  they  all  loved  the  boy  ;  but  he  went  only  to 
the  cottage  of  Mrs.  Dustan.  As  he  entered 
Parthena  wept  and  he  also  burst  into  tears. — 
Their  aged  friend  beheld  the  yearnings  of  a 
young  passion  that  might  terminate  in  sorrow ; 
and  taking  his  hand  she  prayed  God  to  prosper 
him  and  bade  him  farewell.  She  was  leading 
him  to  the  door,  when  Parthena  raised  her  tear 
ful  eyes  ;  he  beheld  them  and  read  their  mean 
ing,  and,  leaping  forward,  threw  his  arms  round 
her  neck  and  printed  the  farewell  kiss  on  her 
forehead ! 

"  Do  not  forget  me,  Parthena,"  he  cried,  and 
hurried  from  the  house. 

Five  years  from  this  period  passed  away.  The 
lovely  girl  was  now  transformed  into  the  elegant 
woman,  in  the  summer  majesty  of  her  beauty. 
For  two  years  Parthena  had  kept  a  school  in  the 
village,  to  which  her  gentleness  and  winning 
manners  drew  prosperity;  and  iier  gray-haired 
benefactress  enjoyed  the  iftvard  of  her  benevo 
lence. 

Preparations  were  making  at  Dresden  Hall 


MOUNTAIN   GIRL. 

for  the  reception  of  Arnold,  who  was  now  re 
turning  as  Major  Comstock.  A  post-chaise  in 
the  village  had  then  become  a  sight  less  rare ; 
but  several  cottagers  were  assembled  before  the 
inn  to  welcome  the  young  lord.  He  arrived, 
and  with  him  a  gentleman  between  fifty  and  sixty 
years  of  age.  They  had  merely  become  ac 
quainted  as  traveling  companions ;  and  the 
stranger  being  on  his  way  northward  had  ac 
cepted  his  invitation  to  rest  at  his  uncle's  for  a 
few  days.  The  foothpath  to  the  Hall  lay  through 
the  churchyard,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from 
the  village.  It  was  a  secluded  path,  and  Par- 
thena  was  wont  to  retire  to  it  between  school 
hours,  and  frequently  to  spend  a  few  moments  in 
silent  meditation  over  her  mother's  grave.  She 
\vas  gazing  upon  it,  when  a  voice  arrested  her 
attention,  saying,  "  Parthena — Miss  Baker!" 

The  speaker  was  Major  Comstock,  accompa 
nied  by  his  friend.  To  the  meeting  of  the  young 
lovers  we  shall  add  nothing.  But  the  elder 
stranger  gazed  on  her  face  and  trembled,  and 
looked  on  her  mother's  grave  and  wept.  ••  Ba 
ker!"  he  repeated,  and  read  the  inscription  oil 


134  THE  .UNFORTUNATE 

the  humble  stone,  and  again  gazed  on  her  face, 
and  again  wept. 

"Lady!"  he  exclaimed,  "  pardon  me  —  what 
was  the  name  of  your  mother? — who  the  family 
of  your  father  ?  Answer  me,  I  implore  you!" 

"Alas!  I  know  neither,"  said  the  astonished 
and  now  unhappy  Partheua. 

"  My  name  is  Baker,"  cried  the  stranger ; 
"  I  had  a  wife — I  had  a  daughter  once,  and  my 
Angeline's  face  was  thy  faee  !" 

While  he  yet  spoke,  the  elder  Comstock  drew 
near  to  meet  his  nephew.  His  eyes  and  the 
stranger's  met." 

".Comstock  !"  exclaimed  the  stranger,  start 
ing. 

"  The  same,"  replied  the  other,  his  brow 
blackening  like  thunder,  while  a  trembling  pass 
ed  over  his  body.  He  rudehr  grasped  the  arm 
of  his^nephew  and  hurried  him  away. 

The  interesting  stranger  accompanied  Par- 
thena  to  the  house  of  Mrs.  Dustan.  Painful 
were  the  enquiries  ;  for  while  they  kindled  hope 
and  assurance,  they  left  all  in  uncertainty. 

"Oh,  Sir!"  said  Mrs.  Dustan,  "if  you  are 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  135 

the  father  of  my  blessed  child,  I  do  not  wonder 
at  old  Comstock's  coloring  when  he  saw  you,  for, 
when  poverty  compelled  Parthena  to  watch  his 
sheep  by  the  hill  side,  and  the  dear  child  would 
be  reading  in  her  Bible  like  a  little  angel,  and 
the  sheep  were  feeding  near  her,  that  hard 
hearted  wretch  would  creep  softly  to  her  side, 
and  grasping  the  precious  book  would  hurl  it 
from  him  uttering  oaths  too  terrible  to  mention. 
But  the  nephew  was  a  fine  young  man  and  often 
sought  the  society  of  my  child." 

Eagerly  did  the  stranger,  who  gave  his  name 
as  Gen.  Baker,  watch  the  fair  being  who  had 
conjured  up  the  sunshine  of  his  youth.  One 
by  one,  he  was  weeping  and  tracing  every  re 
membered  feature  of  his  wife  upon  her  face ; 
when  doubt  again  entered  his  mind,  and  he  ex 
claimed  in  bitterness — *'  Merciful  heaven!  con 
vince  me  !  Oh,  convince  me  that  I  have  found 
my  child  !"  The  few  articles  that  had  belonged 
to  Mrs.  Baker  had  been  parted  with  in  the  depth 
of  her  poverty. 

At  that  moment  Major  Comstock  hastily  en 
tered  the  cottage.  He  stated  that  bis  uncle 


136  TUB   UNFORTUNATE 

had  left  the  hall,  and  delivered  a  letter  from  him 
to  Gen.  Baker.  It  was  of  few  words  and  as 
follows : 

MR.  BAKER — Sir:  We  were  rivals  for  Ange- 
line's  love — you  were  made  happy  and  I  mis 
erable.  But  I  have  not  been  unrevenged.  It 
was  I  who  befrayed  you  into  -the  hands  of  the 
enemy.  It  was  I  who  reported  you  dead — who 
caused  the  tidings  to  be  hastened  to  your  wid 
owed  wife.  It  was  I  who  poisoned  the  ear  of 
her  friends,  until  they  cast  her  off — I  dogged 
her  to  her  obscurity,  that  I  might  enjoy  my  tri 
umph  ;  but  death  thwarted  me  as  jo\\  had  done. 
Yet  I  will  do  one  act  of  mercy — she  sleeps  be 
neath  the  grave  where  we  met  yesterday :  and 
the  lady  before  whom  you  wept — is  your  own 
daughter. 

He  threw  down  the  letter,  and  exclaimed  — 
"  My  child !  my  long  lost  child !"  And  in 
speechless  joy,  the  father  and  the  daughter  rush 
ed  to  each  other's  anus. 

Shall  we  add  more  ?  The  elder  Comstock 
left  his  native  land,  which  he  never  again  dis 
graced  with  his  presence.  Arnold  and  Parthe- 
na  wandered  by  the  hill-side  in  bliss,  catching 
love  and  recollections  from  the  scene.  In  a  few 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  137 

months  her  father  bestowed  on  him  her  hand, 
and  Mrs.  Dustan,  in  joy  and  pride,  bestowed 
upon  both  her  blessings. 


138  THE   UNFORTUNATE 


THE  GREAT  LEVEE; 

OR,    THE    UNEXPECTED    WEDDING. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IN  a  neat,  but  unpretending  parlor  of  a  small 
house  in  one  or  our  villages,  was  assembled  a 
happy  family,  consisting  of  father,  mother,  a 
lovely  daughter  of  thirteen,  and  two  boys 
younger  than  the  girl  around  whom  they  clus 
tered,  as  she  knit  the  last  stitch  hi  the  two  pairs 
of  mittens,  which  they  were  to  wear  for  the 
first  time,  on  the  morrow. 

"  Well,  wife,"  observed  the  husband  gaily, 
"  I  have  this  day  made  up  the  seven  hundred 
dollars,  to  purchase  our  wild  farm  in  the  West. 
But,  indeed,  although  we  have  earnestly  looked 
forward  to  this  day,  I  must  confess,  that  I  feel 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  139 

my  heart  shrinking  from  the  many  hardships 
which  we  must  endure." 

"  Never  heed  them  for  a  moment,"  replied 
the  cheerful  wife,  "  we  are  well,  and  full  of 
hope  and  resolution.  We  will  not  shrink  from 
the  few  years  of  toil  and  hardship  which  will 
secure  ease  and  plenty  to  ourselves  and  children, 
the  remainder  of  our  lives." 

u  But,  Hannah,"  resumed  the  husband,  "  I 
fear  that  our  boys  will  have  no  opportunities  of 
acquiring  education,  for  the  lack  of  which,  nei 
ther  lands  nor  money  can  be  sufficient  compen 
sation." 

"  There,  you  are  borrowing  trouble  again, 
James  ;  Jane  is  capable  of  instructing  her  broth 
ers  in  all  useful  learning,  until  they  are  old 
enough  to  go  from  home,  to  some  good  institu 
tion." 

"  Our  Jane  is  indeed  a  treasure  " — and  the 
father's  face  glowed  with  pride  as  he  spoke  — 
"  and  it  does  seem  that  knowledge  is  hers  by 
intuition.  To  think  of  all  the  branches  that  she 
has  mastered ;  and  the  French  and  Greek  lan 
guage,  too  ;  and  then  her  drawings  are  so  beau- 


140  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

tiful.  0  !  she  will  be  a  treasure  to  us  and  a 
wonder  in  the  new  settlement,  and  who  knows 
but  that  she  may  become  the  wife  of  some 
great  statesman  yet  ?" 

At  this  suggestion,  even  the  hopeful  mother 
looked  thoughtful,  and  sighed  as  she  gazed  upon 
her  fair  daughter.  But  it  was  arranged  that 
they  should  take  up  their  line  of  march  early  in 
the  spring,  for  that  land  of  promise,  the  far 
West. 

Having  suffered  them  to  remain  about  two 
years  in  their  new  location,  we  will  just  look  in 
upon  them  as  we  pass  through  the  fertile  wastes 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  now  nourishing  town  of 
Newport.  Remember,  reader,  we  are  review 
ing  the  scenes  of  the  past  eight  years.  Well, 
here  is  a  little  log  cabin  in  the  centre  of  a  small 
stubble  field,  which  has  apparently  yielded  a 
fine  crop  of  wheat,  though  it  now  has  its  pecu 
liar  look  of  desolation.  This  is  the  home  of  our 
friend  James  Gilbert.  We  will  look  in  upon 
him.  There  seems  but  little  comfort  in  this 
small  dwelling,  with  but  two  rooms  on  the 
ground,  and  a  garret-like  chamber :  with  fur- 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  141 

niture  such  as  the  new  settlers  substitute  for 
the  costly  elegance  which  they  could  not  trans 
port,  and  which  would  be  sadly  out  of  place  in 
log  cabins. 

We  arrived  at  a  very  sad  crisis.  Mr.  Gil 
bert  lay  on  his  humble  bed  very  sick  with  a  fe 
ver.  Poor  Hannah  looked  weary  and  care-worn. 
She  was  attending  to  her  affectionate  husband  and»v 
cooking  dinner.  The  youngest  of  the  boys  they 
brought  with  them  was  sitting  listlessly  by  the 
fire,  pale  and  emaciated  by  the  fever,  from 
which  he  was  just  recovering.  Indeed,  it  would 
seem  that  they  had  already  paid  a  high  piice 
for  years  of  independence  and  honor,  if  such 
are  really  in  store  for  them.  The  sick  man's 
eyes  wandered  from  the  patient  wife  to  the  suf 
fering  child,  and  the  tears  stole  down  his  burn 
ing  cheeks.  An  elegant  carnage  stopped  in 
front  of  the  cottage  door,  and  a  lady  alighted, 
in  the  most  showy  and  expensive  dress  possible. 
Mrs.  Gilbert  meantime  prepared  to  welcome  the 
stranger,  who  entered  with  an  air  of  proud 
condescension,  and  announced  herself  as  the 
daughter  of  Gen.  Mayfield. 


142  THE    UNFORTUNATE 

"  I  was  informed  that  you  have  a  daughter," 
said  the  fine  lady,  addressing  Mrs.  Gilbert. 

"  I  have,1'  was  Mrs.  G.'s  reply. 

"  Is  she  at  home  now  ?"  inquired  the  lady. 

"  She  will  be  in  presently,"  said.  Mrs.  G. ; 
"  would  you  like  to  see  her  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Miss  Mayfield.  -  I  would 
Uke  to  see  her  before  I  make  my  proposals. — 
We  have  found  it  very  difficult  to  get  a  good 
girl.  I  presume  we  have  had  some  dozen  or 
fifteen  in  the  past  year  and  were  glad  to  get 
rid  of  every  one  of  them.  Some  were  so  igno 
rant,  and  some  so  lazy ;  others  careless ;  but 
the  worst  fault  of  this  class  of  girls  is,  they  are 
so  impudent  and  assuming.  They  will  behave 
just  {is  if  they  thought  themselves  quite  as  good 
as  their  employers,  and  if  we  do  not  treat  them 
with  the  utmost  courtesy,  they  will  leave  us,  no 
matter  in  how  much  of  a  difficulty.  The  girl 
who  left  us  this  morning  was  highly  recommend 
ed  to  me,  but  she  would  not  stay,  unless  she 
could  sit  with  us  at  table,  though  she  said  she 
did  not  expect  to  sir  down  when  we  had  com 
pany,  but  she  would  not  eat  in  the  kitchen  with 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  143 

the  colored  servants.  But  then  she  is  a  daugh 
ter  of  a  once  wealthy  gentleman  in  Boston,  and 
has  an  elegant  education,  and  is  so  very  fond  of 
reading.  Now,  servants  ought  not  to  read  at 
all.  The  less  book  learning  they  have,  the 
better  drudges  they  arc.  Educated  girls  have 
such  loft}'  notions  of  themselves,  and  some  of 
them  really  pretend  to  romance.  Indeed,  it  is 
enough  to  disgust  one.  But  I  am  informed 
that  your  husband  was  only  a  poor  mechanic 
before  he  came  here,  and  so  I  hope  that  your 
daughter  has  no  jmportant  airs  and  delicate 
acomplishments . " 

This  oration  was  so  volubly  delivered,  that 
Mrs.  Gilbert  could  not  interpose  a  word ;  and 
just  at  this  moment,  Jane  and  her  eldest  broth 
er  entered  the  house,  carrying  between  them  a 
basket  of  vegetables,  which  they  had  been  gath 
ering  in  the  field.  Jane  had  on  a  pretty  red 
sun  bonnet  and  dark  gingham  dress,  and  her 
sweet,  intellectual  face  was  glowing  with  her 
over  exertion,  and  she  appeared  truly  beautiful. 
Miss  M.  surveyed  her  with  a  disdainful  air,  as 
Mrs.  (jr.  presented  her  daughter. 


144  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

"  I  am  afraid  she  will  make  but  an  indiffer 
ent  kitchen  maid,"  observed  Miss  M.  u  How 
ever,  as  we  tare  entirely  destitute  of  help,  I 
will  give  her  a  trial ;  but  cannot  promise  to  give 
her  great  wages  at  first.  We  will  give  her  four 
shillings  the  first  week,  and  then,  if  she  suits  us, 
we  will  increase  her  wages." 

"  Indeed,  Miss  M."  began  Miss  Gilbert. 

"  Oh,  I  assure  you,"  interrupted  the  lady, 
u  I  cannot  offer  her  a  cent  more.  She  is  so 
very  small  and  delicate  looking." 

"  Miss !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Gilbert,  raising  him 
self  in  bed,  "  if  you  will  permit  me  to  speak,  I 
will  settle  this  affair  at  once.  My  daughter  is 
not  obliged  to  work  out  for  a  livelihood,  and  if 
she  was,  I  will  take  the  liberty  to  say,  that  she 
should  never  work  in  your  kitchen.  People  of 
your  way  of  thinking  should  look  out  for  colored 
servants." 

"  Indeed !"  retorted  the  lady,  rising  from  her 
seat  with  an  air  of  contempt.  "  Your  daughter 
may  yet  be  glad  to  work  in  our  kitchen."  And 
the  lady  departed  with  great  indignation. 

"  Who  ever  saw  such  important  creatures  V 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  145 

and  in  such  low  circumstances,  too,"  ejaculated 
Miss  Mayfield,  as  the  driver  turned  homeward. 
"  I  hope  that  girl  will  be  obliged  to  beg  for  a 
living,  since  she  is  too  good  to  work, — which 
she  undoubtedly  will  before  another  year  rolls 
round.  I  think  ladies  will  be  compelled  to  do 
their  own  work  soon,  poor  people  are  becoming 
so  insolent  and  exacting." 

But  was-  Jane  Gilbert  compelled  to  beg  be 
fore  another  year?  We  think  not,  for  six  months 
from  that  time  found  the  family  all  well  and  full 
of  hope. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"•  DEAR  me,"  drawled  Miss  Sophia,  as  she 
floated  affectedly  into  Mrs.Mayfield's  dashy  par 
lor,  "  would  you  believe  it?  Jane  Gilbert  is  now 
a  teacher  in  the  Academy,  of  music  and  draw 
ing,  and  they  say  her  drawings  are  beautiful." 

At  that  moment  the  door  bell  rang,  and  a  ser 
vant  announced  that  Mr.  Warner  and  his  sister 


146  THE    UNFORTUNATE 

wished  to  see  Miss  Mayfield  at  the  door.  A 
moment,  and  Sophia  stood  before  her  welcome 
guests,  and  after  the  usual  compliments,  the 
gentleman  very  politely  invited  her  to  call  with 
them  on  Miss  Gilbert,  saying,  "  I  am  informed 
that  she  is  very  beautiful,  and  plays  the  piano 
elegantly."  Sophia's  eyes  flashed  with  indigna 
tion,  and  her  lip  curled  with  scorn  as  these 
words  fell  from  her  lover's  lips. 

"  You  are  really  in  love  before  seeing  her," 
ejaculated  the  jealous-hearted  girl. 

"  0,  no ! "  said  her  lover,  laughing ;  "  but  I 
should  like  to  hear  her  play." 

"  Yes,"  rejoined  Miss  Warner,  "  you  know 
Hubert  is  very  fond  of  music,  and  they  say  she 
has  a  melodious  voice.  But  come,  let  us  away 
and  judge  for  jeurselves." 

Miss  Mayfield  reluctantly  consented  and  they 
soon  were  on  their  way.  Not  a  word  escaped 
the  lips  of  Sophia  during  their  walk,  but  she 
listened  with  disgust  to  the  conversation  which 
passed  between  Mr.  Warner  and  his  sister  until 
they  had  reached  the  place  of  their  destination. 
A  rap  was  heard  at  the  door.  A  servant  ap- 


MOUNTAIN    (URL.  147 

peared  and  very  politely  ushered  them  into  a 
neat  little  parlor,  where  sat  Miss  Gilbert  at  the 
piano  and  Mr.  Le  Roy  at  her  side.  Miss  Gil 
bert  rose  somewhat  embarrassed  at  the  unexpect 
ed  arrival,  but,  -with  an  air  of  gentility  and  re 
finement,  received  the  aristocratic  guests.  After 
some  conversation — "Miss  Gilbert,"  said  Mr. 
Warner,  "we  would  be  highly  delighted  to  hear 
a  tune  on  the  piano."  She  politely  declined, 
but  the  invitation  being  repeated,  she  assented, 
and  a  triumphant  smile  passed  over  the  features 
of  the  preceptor  as  she  advanced  to  take  her 
seat.  Mr.  Warner  and  his  sister  listened  with 
great  satisfaction  to  her  bird-like  voice,  while 
Miss  Mayfield's  heart  burned  with  envy  and 
hatred,  as  she  watched  the  graceful  movements 
of  the  admirable  Miss  Gilbert. 

Time  flew  rapidly,  and  when  an  hour  had 
passed,  it  seemed  but  a  moment  with  Hubert. 

"  That  is  indeed  beautiful,"  said  Miss  War 
ner  as  the  music  ceased. 

It  was  now  nine  o'clock,  and  the  guests  took 
their  departure,  leaving  Mr.  Le  Roy  and  Miss 
Gilbert  to  themselves. 


148          THE  UNFORTUNATE 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  Miss  Gilbert  is  indeed  beautiful  and  plays 
the  piano  forte  elegantly,  and  her  drawings  are 
said  to  be  the  nicest  in  these  parts  yet !  She 
is  only  the  daughter  of  a  mechanic,  and  it  must 
be  that  Mr.  Le  Roy  has  uncommon  regard  for 
her,  or  he  would  not  honor  her  with  a  levee  ;" 
said  Miss  Mayfield,  addressing  her  mother,  as 
she  seated  herself  by  a  half-open  window  one 
beautiful  May  morning. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  the  levee  is  to  be  for  the 
benefit  of  that  little  upstart  ?"  said  Mrs.  May- 
field  with  an  air  of  disdain.  "  I  presume  the 
foolish  girl  will  expend  the  last  cent  to  decorate 
her  person  with  finery  in  hopes  she  may  make 
a  favorable  impression  on  the  heart  of  Mr.  Le 
Roy." 

"  Yes !  I  dare  say  the  little  Miss  indulges  a 
hope  that  she  may  yet  become  his  bride !  but  lie 
is  too  proud-spirited  to  pay  his  addresses  to  a 
poor  girl  like  Miss  Gilbert,  I  assure  you  ! " 
Miss  Mayfield  haughtily. 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  149 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  an  aris 
tocratic  lady  was  ushered  into  the  room,  who 
prided  herself  on  having  the  most  refined  and 
sentimental  daughter  in  the  village ;  for  Mrs. 
Elford  had  often  prefaced  her  demands  for 
money  with  the  information  that  Augusta's  taste 
was  so  refined,  and  her  mind  so  exceedingly 
sensitive,  that  she  positively  could  not  bear  con 
tradiction. 

"Good  morning  Mrs.  Elford,"  said  Miss  May- 
field,  rising  from  her  seat,  "  has  Augusta  suc 
ceeded  in  obtaining  the  white  satin  dress  pat 
tern  ?" 

"  No ! "  said  the  lady,  while  a  shade  of  dis 
appointment  passed  over  her  features :  "  the 
last  pattern  had  just  been  purchased  by  Mr. 
Warner,  as  I  entered  the  shop." 

•'Indeed!"  said  the  disappointed  girls,  "I 
had  congratulated  myself  on  having  our  dresses 
precisely  alike." 

"  You  can  both  dress  in  peach-blow  satins," 
said  Mrs.  Mayfield,  gazing  intently  on  her 
daughter. 

"  Yes,  but  I  left  my  pattern  at  the  dress- 


150  THE    UNFORTUNATE 

maker's  yesterday ;  besides,  white  would  be 
much  nicer  to  wear  on  such  an  occasion." 

"  Well,"  replied  the  lady,  rising  from  her  seat, 
"  Mr.  Elford  is  going  to  the  city  to-morrow,  and 
perhaps  he  can  obtain  the  pattern  desired." 

So  saying,  she  took  her  leave  and  hastily  re 
turned  home. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Elford  set  out  with  a 
light  heart  for  the  city,  to  gratify  the  wishes  of 
his  only  child,  resolved  to  purchase  the  pattern 
so  much  desired,  even  should  he  be  obliged  to 
pay  double  the  value.  Time  passed  heavily 
away,  and  the  minutes  were  almost  numbered 
by  Augusta,  Avho  waited  anxiously  between  hope 
and  fear  for  the  return  of  her  father.  It  was 
four  o'clock  hi  the  afternoon,  when  Mr.  Elford 
entered  his  house,  holding  hi  his  hand  the  arti 
cle  which  had  caused  so  much  anxiety  in  the 
bosom  of  his  idolized  daughter,  who  received  it 
with  a  smile  of  satisfaction  and  triumph. 

"  You  were  very  fortunate,"  said  Augusta, 
throwing  on  her  hat  and  shawl,  and  immediate 
ly  set  out  for  the  dressmaker's. 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  151 


CHAPTER   IV. 

"  My  dear  Armenia,"  said  Mr.  Hasson,  "  I 
liave  brought  you  the  pattern  you  wished,  but  I 
know  not  how  I  shall  pay  for  it." 

"Father,  father,"  said  the  astonished  girl, 
"  what  does  this  all  mean?  I  would  never  have 
asked  the  dress,  if  I  had  thought  you  could  not 
afford  it.  Indeed,  I  cannot  wear  it  now,  I  am 
sure  I  should  feel  very  unhappy.  Do  dear  fath 
er  take  it  back." 

"  Oh,  no,  Armenia,  it  will  perhaps  look  rather 
odd  if  I  cannot  afford  you  a  new  dress  to  wear 
on  such  an  occasion.  Besides,  you  told  me  you 
thought  you  had  none  that  would  be  proper  to 
wear." 

"  I  did,"  said  Armenia,  blushing  deeply,  "  but 
I  now  remember  that  aunt  Amelia  told  me  so, 
and  said  Miss  Warner  and  Miss  Mayfield  were 
to  have  white  satin  dresses  richly  trimmed  with 
heavy  pointed  lace,  and  were  to  have  pearls  in 
their  hair.  I  did  not  think  of  asking  so  much, 


152  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

but  aunt  said  she  thought  I  ought  not  to  be  out 
shone  by  every  one,  so  I  made  my  request  for 
the  dress,  which  I  now  feel  was  dictated  by  van 
ity,  perhaps  tinctured  with  envy." 

"  You  certainly  deserve  the  pattern,  Armenia, 
for  this  ingenious  confession,  and  I  shall  insist 
on  your  keeping  it." 

"  Do  not  think  of  it,  papa,  indeed  I  cannot 
wear  it."  And  the  utterance  of  the  gentle 
girl  was  choked  by  tears. 

"  I  was  desponding  when  I  said  that,  but  times 
may  improve.  Heaven  mil  bless  my  endeavors 
for  the  happiness  of  so  good  a  child.  Now  dry 
your  tears,  dear,  and  I  will  send  Aunt  Amelia 
to  you  before  night,  and  you  will  be  all  ready 
for  the  levee  in  good  time." 

"  Nay,  but  father,  that  is  not  necessary  for 
my  happiness,  and  I  feel  that  my  heart  must  be 
sadly  out  of  tune  if  its  serenity  could  be  dis 
turbed  by  the  lack  of  a  little  splendor." 

"  Well,  keep  it,  dear,  at  any  rate,  I  feel  a 
sort  of  affection  for  this  dress,  since  it  has  shown 
ine  the  character  of  my  child  in  so  lovely  a 
light." 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  153 

Mr.  JIasson  was  an  industrious  merchant 
whose  wife  had  been  dead  some  three  years, 
and  the  expense  of  rearing  small  children  was 
of  course  greatly  enhanced,  yet  he  had  sustain 
ed  good  credit,  and  had  kept  up  an  equal  ap 
pearance  with  the  world.  But  the  expense  of 
his  family  increased  while  his  health  failed  by 
constant  labor,  and  he  saw  the  shadow  gather 
ing  over  his  path,  now  no  longer  lightened  by 
one  who  had  been  as  the  polar  star  to  the  wan 
derer  on  the  pathless  deep.  Yet  it  was  very 
bitter  to  think  of  adding  to  the  weight  of  care 
that  already  rested  on  the  heart  of  his  beloved 
child  ;  for  since  the  death  of  her  mother,  she  had 
supplied  her  place  in  so  kind  a  manner,  that  they 
scarcely  knew  the  loss  of  their  maternal  guar 
dian.  She  was  nearly  eighteen,  and  it  was  for 
the  great  levee  that  she  had  asked  the  dress. 


154         THE  UNFORTUNATE 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  anticipated  hour  at  length  arrived.  We 
will  not  stay  to  describe  the  decorations  or  the 
illuminations  of  Mr.  Le  Roy's  mansion.  We 
will  only  say  that  it  was  as  light  as  the  hearts  of 
the  gay  throng,  who  had  assembled  to  tender 
their  homage  to  Miss  Gilbert  this  evening  as 
Queen  of  the  levee.  Mr.  Le  Roy  had  corres 
ponded  with  Miss  Gilbert  for  nearly  a  year,  with 
out  giving  rise  to  the  least  suspicion  of  their  in 
tended  marriage.  The  guests  were  now  seated ; 
and  Mr.  Le  Roy,  with  his  lady  splendidly  attir 
ed,  in  white  satin,  her  fine  auburn  tresses  beau 
tifully  contrasting  with  the  costly  gems  that 
sparkled  amid  their  dark  glossy  luxuriance,  en 
tered  the  hall ;  and  a  plain  but  noble  looking 
gentleman  approached  the  fair  couple,  and  very 
politely  requested  the  assembly  to  rise  ;  and  to 
the  astonishment  of  the  happy  guests  eloquent 
ly  performed  tlv:  D"»?.viage  ceremony.  Each 
face  beamed  with  joy  as  they  saluted  the  fair 


MOUNTAIN   GIRL.  155 

couple  ;  the  evening  passed  in  mirth  and  hilari 
ty  ;  and  a  suitable  hour  saw  all  parties  quietly 
seeking  that  repose,  which  is  very  necessary 
after  attending  such  an  unexpected  wedding. 

Mr.  Le  Roy  spent  his  life  in  happiness  with 
his  lovely  bride  ;  though  somewhat  envied  by  the 
Mayfield  family.  The  Gilbert  family  grew  up, 
respected  by  all  who  knew  them,  acquired  lib 
eral  educations,  and  became  useful  men ;  and 
made  their  home  a  little  paradise. 


156         THF  UNFORTUNATE 


THE  FORTUNATE  BACHELOR. 


THE  light  of  day  had  faded  from  the  highest 
snow-clad  peak  of  the  Alleghanies.  In  a  small 
cottage,  immediately  upon  the  bank  of  the  river, 
some  few  miles  obove  its  junction  with  the  Great 
Kanawha,  blazed  a  bright  fire,  by  which  was 
seated  a  gentleman  apparently  about  forty-five 
years  of  age,  engaged  in  earnest  conversation 
with  a  young  lady  who  had  scarcely  seen  nine 
teen  summers.  T^he  bloom  of  health  was  upon 
her  cheek  and  her  soft  blue  eyes  rested  intently 
upon  the  speaker  at  her  side. 

"  Well,  Annah,  suppose  I  ask  your  father's 
consent.  His  refusal  cannot  make  things  much 
worse  than  they  are  at  present.  Suspense,  An 
nah,  suspense  is  the  cause  of  the  most  miserable 
of  feelings.  The  captive  criminal,  who  is  in 
doubt — even  in  reference  to  his  punishment — 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  157 

must  certainly  be  the  most  wretched  of  mortals. 
I — I  would  prefer  the  gullotine,  yes,  the  gullo- 
tine." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Laurett,"  said  the  fair  girl  gent 
ly  placing  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  "  am  I 
to  be  your  executioner  ?" 

"  No,  you  are  not ;  but  I  am  afraid  your  fath 
er  will  be  the  executioner  of  us  both,  and  that, 
too,  out  of  pure  affection  for  his  fair  daughter,  as 
he  was  pleased  to  call  you  the  other  day." 

"  You  think  he  loves  me,  then,  do  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  dear  Annah,  I  believe  he  loves  you 
—  I  never  doubted  it ;  and  I  have  reason  to  sup 
pose  that  he  has  more  good  will  for  me,  than  for 
many  whom  he  calls  his  friends  ;  but,  Annah,  I 
am  poor,  and  he  has  more  than  once  hinted,  that 
young  ladies  who  have  been  reared  in  affluence, 
can  never  be  happy  in  marriage  unless  they  are 
united  to  men  of  wealth.  0,  if  he  knew  how 
matters  stand  between  us,  how  he  would  frown 
at  the  idea.  I  want  the  effervescence  of  his 
wrath  to  be  over,  and  I  Avill  inform  him." 

"  We  must  not  be  too  hasty,  Mr.  Laurett," 
said  the  trembling  girl  ;  "  our  situation  requires 


158  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

caution.  By  a  little  management  we  may  pos 
sibly  succeed,  gloomy  as  the  prospect  appears 
to  be.  Now  do  not  say  anything  to  papa  about 
it  yet — I  had  much  rather  you  would  not.  The 
best  possible  way  to  accomplish  our  wishes  is 
not  to  advance  too  soon." 

"  Too  soon — too  soon,  Annah  ?  Have  we  not 
waited  a  year  and  more  ?  and  have  you  not 
been  pleading  the  same  to  me  —  too  soon  all  the 
while  ?  Too  soon,  indeed  !" 

"  Well  now,  dont  be  angry  ;  throw  that  frown 
from  your  countenance,  and  look  pleasant ;  and 
we  will  immediately  decide  on  some  plan,  by 
which  we  may  effect  the  object  you  so  much  de 
sire  ;  come,  smile  away  your  anger, — the  skies 
of  love  are  sometimes  clear,  and '' 

"  Annah,  if  he  refuses  positively,  the  only 
way  will  be  for  us  to  elope.  I  Anil  introduce 
the  subject." 

"  Do  not  yet,  Mr.  Laurett,  I  entreat  you. — 
We'll  take  a  little  more  time  to  think,  and  then-" 

"  No  !  Annah,  we  have  thought  of  it  too  long 
already  :  lot  us  know  our  destiny.  I  will  see 
you  again  soon.  Good  evening." 


MOUNTAIN   GIRL.  159 

So  off  went  Mr.  Laurett,  leaving  Annah,  his 
betrothed,  in  a  sort  of  half  good-natured  pet.— 
Lovers  are  impatient  sometimes,  and  perhaps  not 
without  a  cause,  for  fortune  is  a  fickle  dame,  and 
the  poor  only  professed  particular  fellowship  for 
Cupid  and  his  votaries  under  certain  circum 
stances.  She  it  was  who  first  gave  rise  to  the 
remark  that  the  course  of  true  love  doth  not  al 
ways  run  smooth  ;  and  doubtless  upon  some 
rough  portion  of  the  tide  there  is  sufficient  to  test 
the  integrity  of  another  such  a  man  as  he  who 
held  forth  iu  the  wilderness  of  Uz,  and  perhaps 
even  he  would  have  flinched,  and  remained  wife 
less,  had  he  been  obliged  to  encounter  some  of 
the  difficulties  and  dangers  which  have  assailed, 
in  these  modern  times,  the  sailors  upon  the  seas 
of  love.  Many  things  have  been  said  about 
lovers'  philosophy,  but  the  philosophy  of  love  is 
another  thing,  and  in  many  points  of  peculiar 
trial,  is  found  to  be  a  scarce  article.  Annah 
possessed  about  as  much  and  may  be  a  little  more 
than  most  girls  of  nineteen — certainly  more 
than  Laurett.  She  was  really  —  truly,  and  deep 
ly  in  love  :  but  so  far  from  having  lost  her  reason 


160  THE    UNFORTUNATE 

in  the  matter,  she  could  coolly  advise,  and  that, 
too,  with  her  impatient  suitor  teasing  at  her  side. 

A  lover  who  is  crossed  in  his  purpose  may  be 
compared  to  a  ship  in  a  storm  with  sails  all  up 
and  no  rudder  to  regulate  her  course.  She  is 
tossed  upon  the  billows  like  a  mote  upon  the  wind, 
but  the  magnet  directs  her  needle  upon  her  deck 
with  unerring  accuracy;  no  veer  of  the  ship, 
however  sudden,  can  interrupt  its  range,  and  its 
point  is  ever  toward  the  steady  pole.  Circum 
stances  are  the  winds  and  waves  which  rave  in 
mad  riot  around  the  lover's  hopes,  his  heart  is 
in  his  compass,  and  while  his  unfortunate  mor 
tality  is  driven  about  by  tempests  which  he  can 
not  control,  it  remains  fixed  upon  its  fair  enchan 
tress.  Augustus  Laurett  had  loved  Annah  wild 
ly,  deeply,  passionately  for  nearly  three  years. 
One  year  and  more  had  passed  since  they  had 
pledged  themselves  to  share  the  fortunes  of  a 
cold-hearted  world  together.  No  wonder  her 
lover  had  become  impatient ;  a  year  would  seem 
a  short  eternity  to  wait  upon  the  eve  of  bliss, 
and  yet  delay  the  happy  consumption. 

There  is  a  point  of  courtship,  where,  if  mat- 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  161 

rimony  should  not  ensue,  it  were  far  better  for 
the  parties  concerned  that  they  never  were  in 
love ;  a  millstone  about  their  necks  and  they 
cast  into  the  depths  of  the  ocean,  were  prefer 
able,  for,  then,  instead  of  being  driven  about 
upon  the  surface  of  misfortune,  they  would  sink 
to  the  bottom  and  be  at  peace.  Who  has  been 
delayed  in  love  and  not  felt  the  truth  of  the  re 
mark  ? 


CHAPTER  II. 

Annah  Walton  was  the  daughter  of  a  wealthy 
shipper.  He  was  an  upright  and  highly  honor 
able  man,  but  withal  an  old  school  aristocrat, 
whose  ipse  dixit  was  law  supreme  wherever  his 
power  could  be  exercised.  It  was  Annan's  mis 
fortune  to  lose  her  mother  during  her  early  in 
fancy,  and  though  she  had  been  carefully  reared 


162  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

by  a  devoted  nurse,  yet  it  must  be  confessed 
that  unlimited  indulgence  had  not  allowed  her 
disposition  to  become  amiable  to  that  degree 
which  may  be  styled  insipidity,  nor  was  old  Aunt 
Sarah's  system  of  education  such  as  was  eminent 
ly  calculated  to  prepare  her  young  mistress  for 
the  ordeal  of  modern  society.  Annah  Walton 
had  acquired  a  liberal  education  at  the  North, 
at  the  age  of  eighteen,  and  was  beloved  by 
Lawyer  Wentworth ;  who  aspired  to  her  hand, 
which  she  obstinately  refused,  notwithstanding 
his  warm  entreaties,  and  the  threats  of  her  pas 
sionate  father ;  still  she  remained  unmoved  and 
asserted  that  she  would  never  consent  to  become 
the  bride  of  one  whom  she  did  not  love. 

Annah  was  standing  alone  in  her  parlor  one 
evening  in  December  ;  while  the  soft  moonlight 
streamed  over  her  lovely  features ;  she  fold 
ed  her  arms  across  her  throbbing  bosom  and 
tears  of  anguish  streamed  down  her  burning 
cheek  as  she  murmered  aloud :  "  Shall  I  con 
sent  to  become  the  bride  of  one  whom  I  detest. 
and  despise  ? — or  shall  I  seek  a  home  in  the 
heart  of  him " 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  168 

"  Yes,  ray  dear,"  said  Mr.  Laurett,  who  at 
that  moment  entered  the  half  opened  door  and 
approached  the  agitated  girl,  "  you  shall  find  a 
home  with  me  " —  gently  throwing  his  arm 
around  her  delicate  form  and  drawing  her  to 
his  side. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Laurett,  but  should  my  proud  and 
smiling  lover  ever  become  the  cold  and  indiffer 
ent  husband  !  If  ever  in  consequence  of  some 
deficiency  in  my  nature,  you  should  feel  in  your 
noble  heart  an  aching  void  that " 

"  Come  !  come,  dear  Annah,  away  with  such 
misgivings  ;  this  world  must  be  an  aching  void 
to  me  without  you.  Believe  me  !  I  will  ever  be 
all  to  you  that  a  devoted  husband  can  be.  But 
now  to  the  point ;  the  sliip  sails  for  England  to 
morrow,  and  are  you  ready,  and  willing,  to  en 
trust  yourself  to  my  care  and  accompany  me 
thither  ?" 

"  To-morrow  V"  said  Annah  with  surprise. 

"  Yes,  Annah,  to-morrow,  since  your  father 
has  strictly  forbidden  our  union,  it  is  necessary 
that  we  should  improve  the  present  opportunity 
for  our  escape.  Annah,  if  you  accept  my  offers 


164  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

we  will  embark  for  Liverpool  to-morrow  ;  if  not, 
this  must  be  our  last  interview ;  I  shall  leave 
you  to  decide  the  question  alone." 

So  saying  he  warmly  imprinted  a  kiss  upon 
her  marble  brow,  while  a  tear  stole  down  his 
manly  cheek — saying  as  he  left  the  room,  "I 
will  call  at  three  o'clock  for  you." 

Annah  sat  motionless  and  here  yes  rested  in 
tently  on  the  form  of  her  lover  as  he  departed. 
Here  the  poor  girl  was  left  in  a  dilemma.  She 
must  forever  abandon  the  thought  of  becoming 
the  bride  of  Mr.  Laurett,  or  forever  bid  her 
early  home  adieu.  "  Yet,"  said  she,  starting 
from  her  seat,  "  God  is  love  !  He  is  able  and 
I  trust  will  make  our  union  a  happy  one."  A 
smile  of  hope  passed  over  her  countenance  as 
she  moved  noiselessly  about  the  apartment  ar 
ranging  the  baggage  for  their  embarkation. 


MOUNTAIN  GIRL.  165 


CHAPTER  III. 

Up  and  down,  and  sometimes  round. 
But  still  their  course  was  Hymen  bound. 

The  next  morning  witnessed  Laurett  with  his 
intended  bride  embarking  for  Liverpool.  Lau 
rett  smiled  proudly  as  he  gazed  on  the  lovely 
being  who  was  standing  at  his  side  on  the  deck 
of  the  proud  vessel  which  bore  her  onward.  She 
watched  the  fast  receding  shore  of  her  nativity 
fading  away  into  a  blue  line  upon  the  horizon's 
verge,  and  silently  dropped  the  farewell  tear  as 
she  murmured,  in  despair !  "  For  me  no  more 
a  home  ;  henceforth  Annah  Walton  is  indeed  an 
•mtcast- " 

"No!  no!  dear  Annah,"  said  Laurett,  press 
ing  her  to  his  bosom,  "  I  trust  our  home  in  L., 
will  be  as  pleasant  as  the  home  of  your  child 
hood." 

We  will  not  pretend  to  describe  the  feelings 
which  this  rash  move  occasioned,  in  the  bosom 
of  the  devoted  parent,  when  convinced  of  his 
daughter's  elopement,  but  will  pass  lightly  over 


166  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

the  heart-rending  scene.  Mr.  Walton,  though 
by  birth  a  Southerner,  had  been  educated  at 
Northern  institutions,  where  his  youthful  excess 
es,  and  very  liberal  principles,  had  gained  for 
him  the  reputation  of  a  generous  and  whole- 
souled  associate,  but  a  wild  and  uncontrollable 
student.  The  most  prominent  deficiency  in  his 
character  was  a  curious  combination  of  energy 
and  volatility,  which  rendered  him  the  abandon 
ed  slave  of  whatever  passion  for  the  moment  ex 
cited,  or  influence  which  for  the  time  being  sur 
rounded  him.  This  was  more  especially  applica 
ble  to  his  college  days,  for  years  of  married  life 
had  made  him  a  moral  and  respectable  man ; 
especially  since  the  death  of  his  companion,  he 
had  been  an  affectionate  and  devoted  parent  and 
studied  only  for  the  happiness  of  liis  darling 
child.  From  that  memorable  morning,  Mr. 
Walton,  in  appearance,  became  a  different  man. 
He  strove  to  banish  his  grief,  and  to  forget  his 
sorrows  in  the  hilarity  of  a  fashionable  world. 

Four  months  from  the  time  of  which  Ave  speak, 
on  a  glorious  Sabbath  morning,  Mr.  Walton  led 
forth  his  betrothed  to  the  marriage  altar  ;  as  it 


MOUNTAIN    U1RL.  167 

were  to  commence  life  anew.  The  lady  appear 
ed  to  be  about  twenty-eight  years  of  age.  Her 
attire,  though  rich,  was  marked  by  an  elegant 
neatness ;  and  the  absence  of  all  superfluous 
ornament  showed  her  taste  cultivated  and  re 
fined.  Her  rich  brown  hair  was  parted  and  ar 
ranged  with  much  simplicity  over  a  high  fore 
head,  and  her  countenance  bespoke  peace  and 
contentment.  The  Pastor  performed  the  mar 
riage  ceremony  with  great  solemnity,  and  an 
expression  of  satisfaction  passed  over  the  pallid 
features  of  Mr.  Walton,  as  he  departed  with  his 
adorable  bride  leaning  upon  his  arm. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

Reader,  we  will  now  take  a  short  voyage  to 
Liverpool,  where  we  find  Laurett  seated  with 
his  young  bride,  in  a  neat  little  parlor  arranged 
with  great  taste  and  simplicity.  Mr.  Laurett 
was  not  wealthy  as  we  have  said  before ;  but 


168  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

with  his  small  fortune  he  had  managed  with  such 
economy  as  to  enable  him  to  purchase  a  small 
cottage-house,  and  rent  a  shop  in  which  he  com 
menced  business  on  a  small  scale.  He  was  an 
honest  and  upright  man,  and  withal,  a  devoted 
Christian,  who  soon  gamed  the  confidence  and 
esteem  of  his  fellow-citizens,  who  conferred  on 
him  many  offices  of  honor. 

Three  years  had  passed  pleasantly  away  and 
Laurett's  efforts  in  obtaining  wealth  had  evident 
ly  been  crowned  with  success.  It  was  Thursday 
morning — a  bright,  clear  autumnul  day,  as  ever 
dawned  upon  the  earth.  The  heat  of  summer 
had  passed  away,  the  chilly  month  of  September 
had  followed  in  its  footsteps,  and  tke  fading  sea 
son,  as  though  loth  yet  to  retire  to  its  long  sleep, 
and  resign  its  sceptre  to  dreary  winter,  still  lin 
gered  with  a  sort  of  melancholy  pleasantness 
about  the  scene  in  which  it  loved  to  dwell.  Lau- 
rett  entered  his  peaceful  cottage,  greeted  by  his 
affectionate  wife,  with  whom  he  exchanged  a 
kiss,  which  was  their  mutual  custom,  and  led 
her  to  the  sofa,  saying,  "  My  dear,  I  have  news 
of  importance  to  impart.  We  have  this  day 


<!1UL.  169 

become  heirs  to  an  inheritance  of  thirty  thou 
sand  dollars,  deposited  in  England  Bank." 

"  What  do  you  say  ?     You  are  jesting " 

"  No,  dear  Annah,"  said  the  husband,  exhibi 
ting  the  letter,  and  reading  aloud  its  contents. 

"  Merciful  Heaven  !"  exclaimed  the  astonish 
ed  wife,  "  is  it  possible  that  Providence  has  con 
ferred  upon  us  unworthy  creatures  so  great  a 
fortune  ?" 

After  a  short  conversation,  Mrs.  Laurett, 
throwing  her  arms  playfully  about  her  husband's 
neck,  said  with  a  smile  :  "  Now  let  us  return  to 
America,  I  am  sure  papa  would  gladly  receive 
his  children  and  rejoice  with  us  in  our  prosperi 
ty.  Will  we  not  ?"  said  Annah,  while  hot  tears 
gushed  over  her  still  blooming  cheek. 

Laurett  remained  silent  a  few  moments  and 
then  said :  "  Yes,  my  dear,  if  it  is  your  desire 
to  visit  your  father ;  as  soon  as  matters  can  be 
arranged  we  will  embark  for  America." 

His  prosperity  was  soon  rumored  abroad,  and 
people  of  high  rank  and  station  dropped  in  to 
congratulate  Mr.  Laurett  and  his  young  bride 
on  their  good  fortune,  and  expressed  feelings  of 


170  THE   UNFORTUNATE 

the  deepest  regret  when  informed  that  they 
were  so  soon  to  leave  Liverpool,  with  the  inten 
tion  of  spending  the  winter  in  America.  Two 
weeks  had  scarcely  elapsed  and  all  things  being 
satisfactorily  arranged,  Laurett,  with  his  lovely 
bride,  went  on  board  the  Ocean  Bird,  which  lay 
in  the  stream  with  her  anchor  hove  short,  ready 
to  commence  her  cruise  when  the  tide  should 
turn.  It  was  a  benutiful  sight,  and  as  the  Bird 
bounded  on  her  billowy  path,  hundreds  of  spec 
tators  gathered  on  the  shores  to  witness  her  de 
parture  for  America. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Mr.  Walton  had  pleasantly  passed  two  years 
and  more  with  his  new  bride,  who  was  equally 
well  adapted  to  grace  the  drawing-room  and  to 
superintend  the  operations  of  the  kitchen,  and 
in  either  position  showed  herself  perfectly  at 
home.  One  evening,  Mr.  Walton,  returned 


MOUNTAIN    01UL.         .  I.  I 

home  with  a  heavy  heart,  in  view  of  the  gloomy 
prospect  before  him. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Walton, 
as  he  entered  the  dining-room ;  "  you  look  as 
disconsolate  as  if  you  had  lost  your  last  friend." 

"  It  is  something,  Julia,  which  you  could  not 
remedy,  so  why  need  you  know  ?  The  knowl 
edge  of  it  would  only  pain  you,  and  will  come 
soon  enough." 

"  But  I  insist  on  knowing.  Have  I  not  a 
right  to  share  your  sorrows  as  I  have  been  a 
partaker  in  your  joy." 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  tell  you.  I  have  befriend 
ed  my  friend,  lawyer  Wentworth,"  (whom  our 
readers  will  recollect  AVC  mentioned  in  our  sec 
ond  chapter,)  "  in  so  much  that  my  whole  es 
tate  is  to  be  sold  at  auction  on  the  sixteenth  of 
November." 

"  For  what  amount  ?" 

"  For  twelve  thousand !" 

Mrs.  Walton  looked  disappointed  and  per 
plexed  for  a  moment,  but  again  assuming  her 
usual  cheerfulness,  she  said  with  a  smile,  "  This 
is  rather  hard,  my  dear,  but  we  must  trust  in  the 


172 


THE   UNFORTUNATE 


Lord.  He  will  open  some  door  for  our  escape." 
At  that  moment  a  coach  stopped  at  the  door, 
from  whence  a  gentleman  and  lady  alighted, 
who  were  very  courteously  accosted  by  the  ser 
vant  who  ushered  them  into  an  elegant  parlor. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Walton  soon  joined  the  strangers, 
in  Avhom  the  former  recognized  his  darling  child. 
In  a  moment  she  was  in  his  arms.  This  was 
indeed  a  happy  meeting,  and  Mr.  Walton  was 
now  as  cheerful  and  happy,  as  he  had  been  un 
happy,  but  a  moment  before.  Mr.  Laurett  and 
his  bride  were  cordially  received  by  the  step 
mother,  who  had  once  more  made  Mr.  Walton's 
home  indeed  a  pleasant  one. 

Tea  was  now  ready  and  the  happy  family 
once  more  surrounded  a  table  richly  spread 
with  the  luxuries  of  life.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lau 
rett  observed  with  admiration  the  tasteful  and 
elegant  appearance  of  the  table  and  the  proprie 
ty  with  which  every  thing  was  served,  and  felt 
that  their  mother  was  indeed  a  treasure.  Tea 
being  over,  the  merry  guests  were  again  seated 
in  the  parlor,  pleasantly  recalling  past  events. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Walton  rejoiced  in  the  pros- 


MOUNTAIN    GIRL.  173 

perity  of  their  children,  and  Laurett  was  happy 
to  pay  the  sum  required  to  redeem  his  father's 
estate.  Laurett  purchased  a  splendid  estab 
lishment  where  he  spent  the  remainder  of  his 
life  in  happiness  with  his  lovely  bride,  and  in 
the  enjoyment  and  society  of  their  affectionate 
parents. 


LINES, 


I  love  to  sit,  at  dewy  eve, 
Beneath  the  willow  tree ; 
And  listen  to  the  night-bird's  song, 
Which  seems  so  wild  and  free. 

I  love  to  kneel  at  close  of  day 
Beneath  the  willow  tree, 
And  pour  out  my  soul  to  God  in  prayer 
Who  listens  when  I  pray. 

I  love  to  sing  the  Christian's  hymn, 
It  does  my  soul  relieve  ; 
While  angels  listen  to  my  glee, 
Beneath  the  willow  tree. 

I  love  to  know  that  when  I  die, 
Beneath  the  green  sod  I  must  lie : 
I  only  ask  that  I  may  rest, 
Beneath  the  tree  that  I  love  best. 

On  the  marble  at  my  head, 
Be  a  weeping  willow  spread ; 
And  sacred  to  my  memory  placed 
Those  lines  which  cannot  be  erased : 

Sweetly  did  she  resign  her  breath — 
Her  spirit's  gone  to  a  world  of  rest ; 
And  peaceful  now  her  dust  shall  be, 
Beneath  the  weeping  willow  tree. 


INDEX, 


PAGE. 

Preface, 3 

The  Gipsy  Girl, 5 

The  Peaceful  Cottage 17 

The  Orphan's  Soliloquy, 23 

I  think  of  thee, 24 

The  Young  Heiress, 25 

The  Young  Tutor, 47 

A  Cheering  Thought, 56 

The  Orphan  Child, 57 

The  Orphan's  Benefactress, 58 

The  Reward  of  a  Dutiful  Son, 71 

Era,  the  Little  Christian, , 84 

Emma,  the  Belle  of  the  Village, 85 

The  Berry  Boy, 104 

The  Lover's  Soliloquy, 110 

The  Broken-Hearted  Girl, Ill 

The  Early  Graves, 117 

The  Mysterious  Strangers, 125 

The  Great  Levee, 138 

The  Fortunate  Bachelor, 166 

Lines, 174 


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